


Human Nature II: Home Is Where We Are

by BlackQat, LadyFangs



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Babyfic!, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 64,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackQat/pseuds/BlackQat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: It wasn't supposed to end in death. That was not what the watchers intended. They have the power to give life, and take it away, and this time they give it--to see what could have and should have, been.Sequel. Please read "Human Nature" first!





	1. Back To Eden

**Back To Eden**

Gabriel is concerned. There is something wrong. It is in the way Michael begins to tire easily. The way she picks at her food now. The sickness. Neither of them have been ill in the weeks (months?) they have been in this place, this planet of sharp blue skies and white clouds, clear water and lush grasses, white sand beaches and abundance all around.

The starship Discovery is like a distant memory, a vestige of another life.

“You are _not_ fine,” he tells her one evening over her protests following a spell of heaving outside.

“You worry too much, Gabriel.” A gentle smile. The fire has warmed the small space, and she removes her shift to come and lay beside him. The dark, gray blanket is brought around them both and he slips and arm around his wife, pulling her close to his chest.

Michael makes a contented sound, which makes him smile as he admires the curve of her shoulder.

“I just want to make sure,” he tells her. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Nor I, you. But I promise, we are fine.”

He catches it.

“We?”

He can’t see the soft smile that plays on her lips as she nuzzles against the warmth of his body.

“Um hm.”

“Like…you and me?”

A quiet laugh.

“And someone else, too.”

The signs all point in that direction and it aligns with what she knows of human biology. Yes, she has been tired lately. Sleeping more. The nausea started more recently, and her breasts have been sore as well. She thinks it is likely somewhere still in the first trimester, possibly a month or a bit more by now.  

The idea of it is…thrilling.

“Turn around.”

She does, and Gabriel grins down at her, his eyes bright with happiness as a large hand gently touches her belly, still flat. Slightly rough lips place gentle kisses on her forehead.

 “Mine?”

At that, she laughs loudly, highly amused. Michael wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down in a kiss.

“All yours.”

“Then I better start on that addition,” he says, rolling over on top of her.

They are so very, very happy here. This new place they have slowly made their home.


	2. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has read and loved Human Nature. My editor BlackQat (aka SpockLikesCats on fanfiction.net) and I really appreciate the support. I'm presently working on a darker Lorca/Burnham Mirror fic that may see the light, eventually. Until then, please enjoy "Adventures In Babysitting" which will eventually become certain chapters of "Human Nature II: Home Is Where We Are."

He is fascinated by this. Watching her grow. Each day brings with it something new. More fullness, more roundness, and the first time he feels his child move inside her is like discovering what wonder is all over again.

She lays back as he touches, ear against her body, right above the navel. The pressure bumps against his fingertips delight him. The sensation of almost indiscernible pokes against his cheek make him smile.

“Busy,” he remarks.

“Restless,” she tells him, petting his head. “Like his father.”

A kiss on her belly.

“I love you, little one.”

And then, he shifts, coming up her body to kiss her too.

“And I love you too.”

**.**

**.**

It is approximately six months. The addition to their shelter is finally complete--a large extension on the back of the structure provides a new sleeping alcove for them all. Gabriel has managed to craft a bassinet carved of wood and dried fronds, the sinew of vines laced together tightly, and a bed of soft furs.

Michael has crafted tiny, warm blankets made from the furs of Gabriel’s hunts, little socks and a hat for their baby. The materials, they know, are crude, but the results of the effort are pleasing. Still…

“I am thinking I should go back to the compound,” he tells her one day as they lay by the stream, naked and comfortable.

“Why?”

Her skin crawls, remembering what happened there. The torture. Mental. Physical. Emotional.

Long nights spent in fear that one or both of them would be taken; the days spent tending to his wounded, broken body when he was beaten and unconscious. She is more than reluctant to go back and relive it. What if they are captured again? The fear is palpable. Her hands tremble. But he’s determined. Resolute. It’s in the set of his jaw.

 “We could use more supplies, Michael. Perhaps, additional blankets, other things we can use.”

“But what if they come for us again?”

“They’ve yet to come for us since we’ve been gone. And they set us free. So whatever they wanted from us, they’ve gotten already. I doubt they would recapture us. If they wanted to, they would have done so, by now.”

They consider it.

The compound is not very far, set a few miles to the east of their beachside domicile.

“What if it’s occupied?”

At that, Gabriel grins, and she sees in it, her captain once more. Not her husband. The threat of danger always a stimulant for him.

“That’s what phasers are for,” he tells her with a quick kiss and a wink. “Now,” he pulls her close to his body, burying his face in her neck. “Stop worrying. I’ll be fine. It’ll be quick. I promise.”

She nods, reaching up to tousle his hair, now past his ears, stroke his beard. It is thick and full, flecked with gray. But those eyes still spark with determination and mischief.

The early morning hours find one person, not two bundled under the worn blankets in the shelter. A fur sheath stitched together from the skins is pulled up around small, rounded shoulders, providing additional warmth, but the loss of Gabriel’s body heat is what makes her feel cold.

After a while, a yawn, and she slowly rises to start the day, trying not to worry about him.

Her husband is industrious and clever, she knows this from their time aboard Discovery. What can appear as rashness is usually a well-executed plan thought out far ahead of time. Others may have thought him brash, even abrasive, but Michael could always see the calculations running in his mind. The way he weighed each course of action—likely outcomes, losses and casualties--before deciding on a plan. It may have felt rushed, but she knows he never does anything in haste. It is part of what makes him unpredictable, she thinks, the part of him so many find threatening. Intimidating. Even Saru had made a not-so-casual note of it when she came first came aboard Discovery, noting that Gabriel didn’t “fear the things most men fear.”

But yet, she knows, he does feel fear. How he responds to it, is another matter.

The fruit is diced, and alongside it, some of the dried meat he’s prepared for them. The slightly salty flavor and thick texture is very much an acquired taste, but he has insisted she consume more. “For the baby,” he said with a smile, knowing she is not overly fond of meat. When she had inquired whether he could the same with the fish, he shook his head and made a face. “You’d hate it twice as much.” And so for him, and the sake of her baby, not to mention the needed proteins, she eats the meat, noting it’s not as offensive as it once was.

By mid-day, the sun is high overhead, the thrice weekly trip to the woods for fresh kindling complete,  when a shock of dark hair and tanned skin appears in the distance, moving along the beach.  

Gabriel.

He looks to be carrying a great many things and she drops the wood by the shelter and goes toward him.

They greet on the sand, the water lapping at their feet.

“What all is this?”

There is a stack of cloth, blankets, more storage containers and even smaller ones, not to mention fresher clothing for them and tiny garmets as well, all piled high in his arms.

“I found it all at the compound,” he explains, moving up to their home.

 Once inside, he lays it all out and she sorts.

 The new blankets will certainly come in handy, and they can use the old ones, as drapes, or for another purpose. And the fresh clothes are welcome as well. Simple, standard pants and shifts and shirts, but cleaner, since the ones they’ve been wearing are starting to fray and grow thin. And there are some pieces that are larger, as her own shift is growing tight around her belly.

But what does make her smile are the tiny clothes he’s managed to find, and she pulls out little white pants, holding them up, questioningly.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says with a shrug. “They were just there.”

“That seems to occur a lot, doesn’t it?” Michael’s response is wry and gets a peck on the cheek.

“For once, I will not complain,” he tells her. A grumbling sound fills their space. “I’m hungry.”

It is laughter well earned and the new things are moved off into the new space before she goes for the containers that are filled. Soon, she gives him his food. The dried meats and fruit are quickly consumed, and afterward, he leans back, with a sigh of contentment. After a moment, his attention shifts to her.

 “What?”

A slow, almost predatory smile crosses Gabriel’s face and seeing it, Michael backs up quickly. But she’s not quick enough. He grabs her ankle and slides her toward him.

A giggle. Not a laugh, but a very feminine almost…sort of giggle. She covers her mouth, shocked it came out. But he laughs, removing her hands.

 “That’s new.”

 “Stop it.”

He tickles her sides.

“Nope. Not ‘till you do that again.”

A shake of the head. But her body twitches, trying to get away from his wandering hands. The tickles grow with urgency and so does her reaction to them, until she cannot contain it anymore.

More giggles.

He laughs even harder, and they dissolve into a fit of laughter that only ends when he brushes against her back, and slips and arm around her, raising her shift, and quickly doing away with his pants. Here, they have everything that they could want, and the things they never knew they needed.


	3. Past and Future

**Chapter 3**

Weeks now since the Captain and the mutineer have been missing and well past time Starfleet should have been notified. Saru paces in the Captain’s ready room, weighing each of his decisions up to this point.

He sighs heavily.

There is no sign of Lorca, and the crew is beginning to lose hope for a rescue, and lose faith, in the acting captain’s leadership. Saru can sense the change, the frustration, the dejectedness. The sadness that permeates Discovery, a ship without a Captain to steer it. It feels as if all their efforts have been in vain.

As first officer he will accept the blame for this. It was his decision to search, his decision to not inform Starfleet. The consequences, he knows, will likely be severe. But he had to try. For his captain, and also for the woman he once called a friend.

 For Burnham.

Michael.

Even now the name brings chills. So loyal, until she was not. Eight months later, and the conflict within him still rages. Could he have done more? Should he have done more? He feels he should have sensed it—the inevitable betrayal. But he never did. And this is what bothers him the most about her mutiny—that he was there, mere inches away, and the instincts biologically encoded within him failed.

The cost—the loss of a beloved Captain, Georgiou, and, he admits, the loss of a damned good officer. One who likely could have been a captain already--Michael Burnham. Her presence is a constant reminder of his own failures, his own fears. And it is this fear, of losing one’s captain, of betraying one’s captain, that drives him to continue his search, though with each passing day, it feels more and more hopeless…

The doors to the ready-room swoosh open and Lieutenant Tyler and Cadet Tilly stand before him breathlessly.

“Commander! We have something!”

They have something.

Saru’s long legs, balanced gracefully on hooved feet, carry him toward them, and he stares down expectantly, hands clasped behind his back. His face reflects none of the turmoil he’s been feeling—a credit, he knows, to Michael herself, the master of masking emotion.

“Well?”

“We found a trail,” Tilly says.

“Traces of the same ions we found in the Captain’s quarters,” Tyler explains.

“Then let’s follow it.” Saru refuses to give in to the sense of relief threatening his false calm.

And let’s hope it leads us to them, he thinks to himself as he follows Tyler and Tilly off the bridge and down the hall to Engineering.

.

.

Interlude

 - The Watchers - 

_They are concerned. Their experiment, while risky, has never been meant to endanger anyone. But the individual Saru, one from a prey species, is feeling great tension. What he lives for is threatened. Much of his energy is consumed with maintaining calm. They discuss this and conclude that their experiment regards Human nature, not the nature of the Kelpien race._

_And so they make adjustments, very minor things, considering their great capabilities._

_Small adjustments to memories, the crew’s perception of time, and to the ship’s scientific and chronological instruments. The scientists will still be curious about the great time difference – between the long time passing on the planet and a shorter time passing on the ship, a difference even greater now – but their questions will simply increase their knowledge without endangering the Kelpien._

_There. Things should go more smoothly, albeit with challenges to the Human pair._

 

Paul Stamets sits up in bed, frowning.

“What is it?” Culber mumbles sleepily.

“Something …” he pauses, unable to articulate a change in his perceptions through the mycelial network. Time has been … finessed somehow. But it’s all right, he senses. All is well.

Hugh wakes enough to read his husband’s expression. Since Paul’s begun interacting with Discovery's spore drive, he’s been changing, physically and mentally, and the doctor is watchful, trying not to be scared. He notes that Paul is okay, and opening his arms, murmurs, “come here.”

Stamets lies back, snuggles in, and falls asleep.

.

.

It’s closer now. She thinks the baby could come any day.

Her stomach is round, her “new” dress is stretched tight across her body and she can feel the baby’s feet closer to her side, his head down now. She can feel him in her lower belly and she knows he’s getting into position. Plus, he’s resting on her bladder, making for frequent trips outside.

It’s a struggle to walk, and she cannot go as far nor as fast as she’s accustomed. But, Michael thinks, rubbing her stomach and feeling a tiny hand press back against hers, it’s worth it. Behind her, Gabriel snorts and rolls over, still asleep.

She laughs to herself, quietly.

This is not anything she ever dreamed of. Last year she was first officer under the mentorship of the most respected Captain in the fleet, on the cusp of getting her own command. Twelve months later, she is soon to be a mother, a wife to another Captain, and—with a pang, she realizes, a prisoner still.

Even now, in their private little paradise, it has not escaped their attention that they were taken here against their will. The choices they have made since then are their own. But the decision to come was not. Perhaps someone or something knew what they needed beyond what either of them could admit, and made the choice neither she nor Gabriel could – or ever would have – on their own.

Perhaps fate is a real thing.

At least their baby will be free, even if its parents are not. And at least here, on this planet, they can live in the manner they want. They can laugh and love together without fear of consequence. Maybe it is merely another type of freedom. Or, a lesser form of incarceration.

.

.

He is already outside, hunting for their dinner. She rises as well, though it is difficult. It takes a long moment for Michael to figure out the logistics of her situation—the weight distribution is…uneven. But eventually, she does, swinging her heavy body around in order to sit up. Standing is an even greater challenge, but she manages, and slipping on her already-tight shift dress, she carefully makes her way outside. The sun is high overhead, mid-morning, and the day, clear. Perfect, really. There has not been a flawed one. The nights have been warmer lately as well. She smiles at that. Everything feels…different now. Like she woke up from a coma and is just now beginning to breathe on her own again.

There is a rustling of leaves, and the sound of heavy footfalls before Gabriel breaks through the clearing. Seeing her, he smiles and walks up, pulling her close and kissing her deeply, resting a large hand on her far larger belly. Inside, the baby moves a bit, likely recognizing its father’s touch.

They’re happy in their little place.

The place she wants to stay in forever.

Like Adam. And Eve.

But what about their baby? What will its life be like when its parents are gone? Eventually, it will be left alone here.

A cruel irony of circumstance, she thinks, frowning. They had made this child so that when Gabriel died, he wouldn’t leave her alone. But now she thinks about the future of their child—the likelihood that they have sentenced this little one to a life of loneliness. How selfish they both were…

The thought brings with it a physical pain. And each time it crosses her mind, it hurts, making her eyes water. Like they do now.

He sees it.

“What’s wrong?”

Gabriel’s brow furrows with concern. And for him, she brushes off the moment of melancholy, replacing her frown with a small, soft smile. “Nothing. What did you find?”

But by now, he knows her moods. Knows her in a way most don’t. He can tell.

“Michael…” It’s the tone, a stern warning. The Captain he can’t quite shake. A holdover from old roles.

“I promise, it’s nothing. I was just…thinking about the future.”

The future.

He studies her face, those dark eyes like pools, searching them. Finally, he backs down. She’ll speak it when she feels like it’s time.

“I’m going to the grove.” She pulling away from his grasp and walking off toward the orchard.

“I’ll have it skinned when you get back,” he calls. _It_ being dinner. A rabbit-like creature. They’ve grown quite fond of the taste.

Gabriel gets to work, settling down on the ground in front of their shelter and using a sharpened rock to peel back the skin, gutting and filleting. Michael, he knows, can’t stand this part. She was vegetarian—until the events that brought them together. And they need protein, not just fruit, to sustain them.

He laughs quietly, remembering the first time he fed her meat.

 The look on her face, the scrunching of her nose, pursing of lips, a near-gag—he’d laughed long and hard at that, and she’d been so offended! But it was funny. Less funny, though, was the first time she’d actually seen the skinning process in action.

“It is cruel to do this to another living creature,” she’d told him, visibly upset by the carnality of it all.

“It would be cruel if it were still alive, Burnham,” he’d said, steadily working on the task at hand. These things did not faze him, having grown up hunting and fishing. “We only kill what we need. And no more.”

She had understood, though she didn’t like it. It was about survival, after all. And both of them were…are…survivors. They do what they must.

Strange how that seems like forever ago.  He figures they have been outside now for at least a year. And now, they are contemplating decades. Likely forever.

_Forever._

At least he can spend what he has left of his life capital with Michael. And soon, he’ll be a father—something he once fantasized about, but never achieved. There had been that one time, with Katrina, but…it hadn’t worked out. They were too young. Still students at the academy, dumb and irresponsible, too focused on career and both unwilling to sacrifice what they assumed would be their bright futures for a birth control slip-up. Or rather, Kat was unwilling. And he was too proud to admit her decision hurt.

In the end, it wasn’t up to either of them. Nature did it, but nature was enough; Kat said she was surprised to be so mournful about it, despite her initial lack of desire for motherhood. She became more introspective, sometimes emotionally shutting herself off from Gabriel. Their relationship never recovered. The drift was slow, but neither wanted to acknowledge it. Their first assignments took them to different places. He spent time with other women. She spent time with other men.

They both lied to each other. Until Kat caught him on Risa and they couldn’t lie anymore.

So much history between them and even now when he remembers it all, there’s still fondness there. And love. But love didn’t mean they were meant to be together, and love, he knows, has its limits. He’s not that 20-year-old kid he was. Never has he considered himself idealistic, but he was once a lot less jaded than he is now.

It did not occur to Gabriel how much he’d changed until the night before he saw Katrina off to the Klingons. That night, he realized that whatever relationship they had was hardly meaningful to him anymore. It was friendly, but by rote. Muscle memory … reflex. He thought then, that maybe he _had_ died when the Buran exploded. When he threatened Kat with his phaser, he recognized that he might not be the lone survivor. He was another casualty. His death may not have been physical, but it was a death, nonetheless.  He was cold to Kat before he sent her to negotiate. Later, he wondered: would that indeed be the last time he might see her alive?

“May fortune favor the bold,” he’d said. He was surely dead inside.

. .

But Michael had revived him.

He saw in her an equally damaged soul—they were two people searching for redemption, yet believing themselves unworthy of it, carrying with them unspeakable regret. He sought in her an ally—a person sympathetic to his plight, but one who, should the need arise, he could rely on to control him when he could no longer do so himself. And he knew Michael would not hesitate to put him down. That, he gleaned through her file.

What he hadn’t realized was how much he could – would – be drawn to her. That the urge to protect her at any cost surfaced so strongly in him, he had to restrain himself from touching her the very first time she entered his presence.

Still, he kept his distance. No one had to know.

But there was one woman who did. Landry.

To this day he can see the accusation in her eyes. And he still feels an irrational sense of guilt. Theirs was an arrangement of convenience, of mutual need. They were two sailors who needed release. But Michael drew his attention away. And the last time with Landry before she died was…

Not what either of them had anticipated. He was inside one woman while fantasizing about another and Michael’s name just…came out.

There’s a rustling in the trees and he looks up to see his wife approaching, fresh fruit collected in the fabric of her dress. At that, he grins. She’s using her shift as a basket, holding up the front and giving him a lovely view of her thighs. Long and lean, and what’s between them he’s now intimately familiar with. The pants are suddenly tight against his body. Michael’s belly is large, and he grins wider, watching the sweet sway of her hips, and the slight waddle of her stride. She would likely not be so impressed should he tell her just how much he delights in all of this right now.

Gabriel’s and Michael’s creation is inside her.

The swell of intense pride, possession and protectiveness take him by surprise and he gets up and goes to her.

“Need a few hands?”

A wiggle of the fingers and a wag of eyebrows. She giggles and goes into their home, sitting down and carefully stacking the fruit against the wall in the section where they keep their food. She reserves two pieces and comes back outside with them in hand.

“Do you have the knife?” The knife he used to skin the animal. He nods and wipes if off before handing it to her, and she settles down beside him and begins peeling away. It’s quick. The fruit is sliced and added to the pieces he’s already placed on wooden sticks, making rudimentary _kebabs_ for them.

They go inside and light the fire in the pit, placing the kebabs above it to cook.

For him, waiting is always the hardest part. And sure enough, his stomach rumbles.

Michael laughs.

“Thank goodness we have so much food,” she tells him. “I’d be worried you’d eat _me_ , if you could. You’re always hungry.”

She’s right on that. Even on Discovery, he was always eating something. It’s partly why he kept a bowl of fortune cookies in his ready room.  Lorca grins, a wide, lascivious grin and scoots closer, leaning over to run a hand up her thigh.

“Well…if you’re offering, I could use an appetizer.”

She smiles and lays back, beckoning to him with a finger, as he slips up her body and between her thighs, pulling her dress up and off, leaving her naked and exposed. Now, though, she no longer hides her body from him. She revels in his admiration of it. And she freely admires his.

Maneuvering around the belly is difficult, but not so much a challenge when one is determined. And when they finally come down, they’re breathing hard.

“Where’d you learn that from?” he tells her, panting against the back of her shoulder. 

“I had a good teacher,” she says, reaching behind her to stroke his hair. He laughs and shifts his body with a grunt and an exaggerated groan.

“I think I pulled something.”

It earns him a light punch to the arm and he rolls over on his back, helping Michael turn so that she can lie against him, her fingers trailing down his chest, following the dark line of hair that goes down his stomach. He jumps and wraps a hand around her wrist, stilling her.

A kiss on the forehead and she closes her eyes and rests. They enjoy the silence. The warmth.

Before them, the fire crackles, and the smell of food begins to permeate the room.

After a while, he moves again and she slides off so he can pull their dinner off the fire. She awkwardly sits up as he hands her a kebab.

Their quiet is companionable as they eat. And when they’re done, they lay back down and Michael curls up against him. Gabriel pulls the blanket up around them and rubs her back.

It’s soothing.

She’s secure. Safe here. With him. Just the two of them.

Soon to be three.

The thought comes again, uninvited and it makes her tremble. What happens when there’s just one left?

She doesn’t want her child to be alone nor lonely, without any hope of a future.

“What’s wrong, Michael?” He doesn’t open his eyes, but he doesn’t have to. He feels the shaking of her shoulders. The tension in them. He knows now, when something is bothering her. Just as it was earlier in the day.

 “What did we do?”  Her voice is rough. She's remembering:  a child alone, on a strange planet, her own parents dead. Even now she can barely recall their faces, just their names. Her family, gone. And that same fate, possibly, for the child she now carries, only there would be no Sarek to rescue it, no Amanda to help parent it.

He rests his head on hers, thinking deeply.  She’s given what he’s been feeling a voice.

“I don’t want to leave either of you.” But eventually, he knows he will. Maybe not tomorrow. Or the next day. Not the next month or the next year, but eventually; it’s biological. They all have a sunset date. Michael too.

“It will have a future,” he tells her, gently stroking her hair. “And that won’t be here.” Of that, he is certain. But how and when it will come about? He does not know.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, carefully, looking down into those beautiful brown eyes that have captivated him since the first time he saw her. “Do you regret…this?” His hand lights on her stomach. Hers covers his and her voice is soft, yet firm.

“No.”

 The kiss is gentle, reassuring.

She feels the first sharp pangs later that night, but elects not to wake her husband. Instead, she places both hands on her stomach.

“I can’t wait to meet you.”


	4. Miracles

**Chapter 4**

“Look! Full stop!”

The thrusters power down, and they all look at where Saru’s long fingers point.

A planet. Seemingly emerging from nowhere. Discovery has covered many millions of kilometers, followed the trail that has led them…here. An uncharted world.

“Scan for life signs!” Saru commands and the probes are sent out.

Tilly and Tyler look on anxiously.

Time passes slowly. Or what feels like slowly.

“Commander, we’re picking up two humanoid life forms.”

“Two? Only two? Are you sure?”  Saru says, staring out of the viewer and down at the spinning blue ball before them.

“Just two, sir.”

 “A planet that large…and only two,” he muses.

 “Tyler—Tilly. Take the shuttle. Bring Dr. Culber with you; you three will be the landing party. Set down a few miles away from where they are. If it’s Burnham and Lorca...” He looks at them.

“We’ll bring them back, Commander,” Tilly says.

“Good. Prepare to launch.”

.

.

As soon as their shuttle touches down, Tyler gives the order.

“Fan out,” he says. “Radio when you have something, and be on guard.” He takes a look around them. The planet is quiet. Tranquil. Too tranquil…too….something else he can’t quite put his finger on…yeah, _perfect_. That’s what it is. Too perfect. They are in what feels like a forest, but it’s eerily silent.

There should be life in a forest. Not just flora. Even the air is still.

“Yes, sir,” Tilly says, heading off in one direction. Dr. Culber nods and heads off in another and Tyler strikes out on his own, taking tricorder readings of everything around him. They will chart as they work, and hopefully, the payoff will be the return of Burnham. Lorca…well…he shakes it off. The both of them are the priority. His mind is playing tricks on him. Has been playing tricks on him.

The device begins to record, and he kneels, taking soil samples. Leaf samples. Inputting all of the data.

“Where are you, Michael?” He says, not realizing he’s speaking aloud.

Since she went missing he has been consumed with worry, self-doubt. Wondering about the “why” of it, the “how” of it, with a growing sense of jealousy. Irrational—the woman he loves is missing, but he cannot shake the thought that it should have been him, not the captain, who was taken with her.

Tyler has struggled daily with these things, these thoughts. He knows Michael is perfectly capable of taking care of herself—in some ways she is far stronger than the rest of them, but he still feels like it is his role to protect her. Yet the threat is nothing external. It is, and has always been something he sensed from the beginning. The first time the Captain addressed him regarding Burnham. Lorca’s not-so-veiled threat. “ _Bring her back in one piece or don’t come back at all_ ,” he’d said. Tyler thought Lorca was talking about the ship, but the Captain let him know, with a wry smile and raised eyebrows, that he’d assumed wrong. “ _I was talking about her_,” he’d said, voice low with a slight nod toward Michael, who was rummaging through a bag on the floor behind them.

 There was nothing humorous about it. And to this day the Lieutenant wonders whether she knew…whether she knows.

Still, she chose me, he thinks, the sentiment momentarily reassuring. Michael chose me.

And that is enough to push him on.

He has to find her. Keep her safe, not from the wolves outside, but the ones inside. Or rather, the one. Because while Tyler respects Lorca, is grateful to him really, from that moment between them in the shuttle, he has _never_ trusted the captain with Burnham. 

.

.

The contractions are coming closer together now, and Gabriel sits behind her, holding her gently against his chest and helping her breathe through each one. It will be soon-- she feels, but still not yet time. The pains are sharper. But her water has not broken.

A low extended moan, as another hits.

“It’s all right. I’m here.”

His patient whispers are soothing as she grips his hand tighter, feeling nervous, but trying very hard not to panic. If something goes wrong, all she has is him. His Starfleet training in basic medicine aside, there is no one else to assist, no help is coming and…

“Not going anywhere, and it will be fine,” Gabriel feels the tension in her body, as the grip on his hand tightens.

“I’m…afraid.” It’s a whisper. Her eyes close and her back arches as another contraction hits—far stronger than the others and it makes her groan louder.

He rubs her shoulders, trying to provide reassurance. But he too is growing concerned for them. The labor has lasted far longer than he believed it would, and their baby still is not here.

.

.

“Something isn’t right with this planet,” Tyler says. The brush is thick, but they follow the steady beeping of the tricorders, programmed with Burnham and Lorca’s bio-signs. The signals are getting stronger, the direction in which they’re going is the right one. They fanned out—only to be reunited by the steady beeps of their tracking units. It feels almost as if they have been walking in circles ... for several hours. And still no sign of the two humans the Discovery’s systems claim are on this planet.

“I agree, Lieutenant,” Dr. Culber says. “I’ve picked up some highly unusual readings.”

Like the heat source. Mechanical, from what the sensors have detected, when it should be geothermal. No class-M planet has a mechanical heat source. And that, coupled with no animal life, is a red flag. It is still eerily silent; the only sounds are the ones Tyler, Tilly and Culber make as they crunch through the woods, brush through the trees. 

Suddenly a breeze floats up, seemingly from nowhere, carrying with it a sound that makes them all pause.

A woman.

Screaming.

“Oh, shit! Do you hear that?” Tilly whips her head around to Ash, her eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Tyler says grimly, the dread he’s been trying to suppress rearing up, along with his phaser. “Let’s move out!”

They run in the direction of the sounds, fear and adrenaline driving them.

.

.

She’s now on her hands and knees, head down, and it’s all she can do at this point. The baby is coming. The contractions force the screams from her mouth. In between she’s breathing heavily, trying to control the pain.

All Gabriel can do is try to help. But his touch and his words no longer bring comfort. He’s powerless. And he is not accustomed to feeling powerless. But the situation is no longer under control.

She knows she’s not there yet. Not ready to push but too late to turn back and the pain inside is excruciating.

Michael screams again when another cramp hits.

“Hello? Hello?”

They both hear the calls—two male voices, one female, and Gabriel is up immediately—torn between going outside and staying here.

“Oh PLEASE go get them!!” Michael cries, rocking back, trying desperately to hold on. But she can’t. She can feel it starting…

He goes. And as soon as Lorca steps outside he feels immediately relieved as Dr. Culber, Tyler and Tilly rush toward him.

They meet halfway, and all three are breathless. But time is up.

“Captain!” Culber lays a hand on his shoulder, but Lorca grabs him by the arm and starts dragging him back to the little shelter.

“There’s absolutely _no_ time. We’re just glad you’re here. Michael needs you.”

They go, leaving Tilly and Tyler to follow, confusedly.

 He lets Culber through, but stops the others from coming in.

“Wait here.” It is not a request, but a direct order, spoken in the _captain’s_ voice.

They obey, albeit growing more and more anxious as time goes by.

“What the hell is going on?”  Tyler whispers.

They can hear Michael’s groans, then plaintive screams. Neither have ever heard anything from her even remotely like that. The sounds are agonized, primal—and neither can figure out if what’s happening is real. Behind her, the muted voices of Dr. Culber and Lorca float out.

“Hold her, here.”

 “Push! I need you to push, Burnham…good…”

“Push what?” Tyler whispers.

“It sounds like …” Tilly stops. It can’t possibly be.

Michael sounds as if she’s in agony. Whatever’s going on, it’s intense…gut-wrenching.

“Push hard, now!” Dr. Culber’s voice … A long, gritted female scream...

“It’s just—” Tilly stops mid-sentence. The grunts, the screams, are over.

“Great, Michael, you did great,” from Culber.

“Oh, Michael…” The captain’s voice. It sounds strange to them. Mellow, or tired, but a good tired.

And another sound emerges. Tiny, fragile-sounding, hesitant… They look at each other incredulously.

Slowly, Tilly says, “I wondered if maybe…but, no, it can’t be…”

“A baby!?”

They say it at the same time and sure enough, Culber steps out of the shelter, hands and clothes bloodied. His eyes are wide and he while he looks to be in control of the situation there’s something odd in his expression…shock?

 “We three are doing an emergency beam up,” he tells them, seeming as if he’s speaking to them but looking either through or past them as well. “You two take the shuttle back to Discovery.” 

Michael has stopped screaming. The captain has stopped talking. But still there remains the sound of something…some _one_ , new.

And neither Tyler nor Tilly know exactly what to think of it. How it could be, relative to the time Burnham and Lorca have been gone? Did the captain have _long hair_?  They exchange a quick, “WTF?” glance as they head out for the shuttle. They want to ask questions, but Culber ducked back inside as soon as he could and ordered the beam out. Tilly and Tyler are jogging back to the shuttle, wondering how to feel about it. Or even if what they think they know…is real.

None of this feels real.

.

.

Dr. Culber has called ahead to the ship. And by the time the three new patients arrive, Sickbay is empty of all non-essential staff. The few crewmen recovering from some malady or the other have been moved to the back of the facility and all of the privacy walls have been erected.

It is here, behind the protection of one of the walls, where Michael holds her new son, bundled now in blankets as Culber continues working, pushing gently but firmly on her belly to help her body eject the placenta. 

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says. And she nods, not really focused on him, but on the baby that is trying to reach her breast. Carefully, she lifts him a bit, and winces, when the little mouth makes contact with her nipple. It…stings...more than that, really, but his eyes are closed and the little lips searching so she helps him along.

Culber looks up.

“That’s good, Michael,” he says encouragingly. “He should latch on.” And he does, which releases a flood of endorphins throughout her. She lays her head back again, and closes her eyes as the baby begins to suckle.

Burnham moans slightly as the placenta finally comes out, and for the moment, the doctor’s work is done. He steps back to allow an anxious, expectant Captain to come forward. The two men trade places—Culber moving away as Lorca comes to settle next to the bed, looking down at Burnham and the new baby with something the doctor thinks looks very much akin to…love. Great affection at the minimum but, he would say from experience delivering babies before that that is …paternal love.

Gabriel reaches over to brush aside a tendril of the black hair that graces his son’s head.

Softly, he places a kiss on Michael’s. She’s exhausted, her body entirely wet, but she has never been lovelier than she is in the moment. Than they are in the moment.

And he can’t tear his eyes away from her, nor from what – _who_ – she’s holding.

Swaddled tightly in the blankets they brought with them from the planet, is _their baby_. Their son,  suckling at his mother’s breast.

“He’s perfect,” he tells her, resting his head against hers, their noses rubbing softly.

She touches the baby’s cheek, admiring him.

“I think he looks like you. He’s got your hair. Except for the gray.”

That makes him smile, and his lips touch hers.

“Told you it would work out.”

At that, she chuckles, but immediately winces. Everything hurts. Seeing it, Gabriel backs up, just a bit. But not too far off.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that to you.”

“Yes, you did.”

They speak in low whispers, words meant only for each other, and at her wry smile, he laughs again, allowing the rush of joy to just flow between them.

Yes, he did. They did.

Eventually they stop laughing as a new awareness takes hold, and the adrenaline from the labor is replaced with quiet reflection.

He reaches over to touch the little feet, tickling them through the thick blankets. The baby makes jerky little kicks and burrows its face deeper into Michael’s chest, hungrily sucking away.

“There will be questions,” he says, watching his son and touching the silky skin. So soft. So new. Supple, and wrinkled. Delicate. This little life, so very, very fragile…

“I know. What will we say?”

“I’ll tell them the truth. That he’s mine.”

She looks at Gabriel, but he’s more focused on the baby at the moment. He’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the edges. He looks happy, and he is…but the smile is tinged with something—it’s tight, slightly drawn, and she sees now, what’s happening. They’re back on Discovery. And the Gabriel she knows is retreating, and her Captain is slowly coming back forward.

He catches her looking.

“Don’t worry. It will work out.”

“What if they try to take him?”

“They’ll try,” he says. “But I won’t allow it.” The fervor, the force behind the words matches the steel in his eyes. She looks at the baby, who appears to finally, have had enough. Gently she shifts him, laying his little body on her chest, and patting him gently on the back for a burp.

It comes, loudly. And the sound startles them both. They chuckle quietly. 

After a moment, the child quickly dozes off and she shifts him again in her arms.

“Well, that was easy enough,” Gabriel says, reaching out. Michael transfers son to father and he takes the baby in arms, and starts to pace the room, gazing into a face so much smaller. He leans his head down to smell and feel. To draw in the new scent, the delicate fluff of hair.

“My son.”

In his arms, the baby stirs a bit, and yawns. His eyes open—soft, hazel green—and for a moment, father and son lock eyes as Gabriel puts his nose directly on the baby’s. 

Gabriel smiles and kisses the tiny forehead.

“I love you.”


	5. Strange Times

They look very much like a family. But the very existence of this child should be impossible.

The initial shock of stumbling across Michael in labor has worn off, and the adrenaline of delivering a baby has now been replaced by a great sense of concern. This situation should not be a possibility. But it is very, very real. There is a child. And he has watched it come from a woman who, according to her most recent medical exam taken just weeks ago—was not pregnant. There just hasn’t been enough _time_ for Michael to have delivered a fully developed infant—let alone delivered anything other than a fetus.

 They were not gone for that long, and control would have prevented this anyway. There is a miniscule failure rate, _but_.

Questions. There are so very many.

And no answers.

The lab is almost painfully bright and after working in the dimmer light of the birthing room, it takes Culber’s eyes a moment to adjust. As they do, he makes his way over to the equipment, and, removing the sample of umbilical blood he took from the infant right after Lorca cut the cord on the planet, he takes a small amount from the vial and places it on the slide, zooming in to analyze, and begin running tests. These are the most basic, to determine if there are any health concerns for the infant.

At the first pass, everything comes back well within normal range. Quite remarkable, really, since Burnham has had no prenatal care, from what he has been able to glean, which … hasn’t been much.

The results provide only a small comfort. And in these few, quiet moments, the doctor takes the time to gather his thoughts.

 A couple having a baby was not what he had expected to discover when he beamed down to that planet. A child was not what he expected to deliver, either. And both are...

Culber shakes his head, coming back to the same thought that continues to circle in his mind. How would they have had time to do this? And that is assuming they did anything at all…which brings him to the far darker, and more nagging inquiry.

Was this consensual? Was it forced? If so, by whose doing? And by what circumstances?

Culber looks across from the lab at the darkened space in the corner, where he left Burnham and Lorca for the time being. And as he looks out over the sickbay, his own unease grows. Whose child _is_ this? And what is he to do with the captain and by all extents…the captive as well?

The answers to these questions are in front of him. And he knows as a physician, he is obligated to answer them. But as a colleague and as a…friend…he is not sure he wants to know.

But still…there is duty. To Burnham.

So he exhales a final time, before starting the DNA analysis.

The results are confirmation of what he felt he already knew.

But when he peers closer, he sees something else that he is unsure what to make of. This child is…different.

Michael’s DNA is present. And to his great chagrin, so is Captain Lorca’s. But there is another strain that matches neither of them, raising far more questions.

Culber rises and goes to find the Chief Medical Officer. At this point, certain things are no longer in his control.

.

.

_They are concerned … will all go as planned? They have passed something of themselves into this perfectly matched pair. They regret having kept them prisoner, but having observed humans, feel it was the only way to help the male and female bond so closely._

_And a way to get done what the Watchers needed to do to continue their line; it is doubtful the humans would have agreed to the addition of any inheritance codes alien to them (yet remarkably fitting: thus, the careful genetic pairing), or even agreed to mate. It was necessary, they assure themselves. All will be lost to them, otherwise. Their race will not survive. They haven’t much time, even now, and so all their hopes rest in this child._

.

.

 The shuttle arrives onboard Discovery a half-hour later and Tilly and Tyler quickly rush out, meeting Saru at Sickbay. 

“What is going on?” The commander demands to know. All he has been told is that the Captain and Burnham are in Sickbay, having been transported in. There has been no other word.

 “I can’t exactly tell you, sir,” Tilly says, moving fast. “We don’t know either.”

All three make their way down to Sickbay as fast as they can, but when they arrive they’re greeted by the Chief Medical Officer.

“I can’t let you all in any further,” he says, sternly.

“What?” Saru demands. “Doctor--”

But the CMO isn’t having it. “Sorry Commander, but doctor-patient confidentiality is in effect.”

“Is Michael okay?” Tyler interrupts. “She was screaming and…”

He gets silenced as well. “She is fine.”

“What about the ba--?” Tilly asks, and quickly stops herself. But both the doctor and Saru look at her.

“A ba … a _baby_? What baby?” Saru asks, confused about the exchange.

“Michael was screaming and …” Leaning in and whispering now, “I’m sure I heard a baby. Did Michael have a baby?”

Tyler urgently wants to know, too. It’s all over his face.

The doctor blanches slightly, but he shakes his head. “I’m not at liberty to tell you about Specialist Burnham or Captain Lorca’s condition. Now, I have to ask all of you to leave. Commander,” he speaks directly to Saru— “when I have more information I will inform you as to the next steps, but for now, I have to insist that you all leave. Now.”

Saru is only Acting Captain, and Lorca’s back on board, but the CMO’s orders override them both.

They’ve got no choice but to leave, but not before they notice Sickbay is largely empty, and that a privacy wall has been erected in the middle of the room, where the biobeds are.

The doors to Medical close, leaving them outside in the hall. Saru studies Tilly and Tyler a long moment.

“Come with me.”

They do, and now secluded in the Captain’s ready room, he takes a seat and folds his hands on the desk. “Exactly what happened down there?”

They tell him as much as they know.

Saru frowns.

.

.

 

“This is absolutely impossible.” The CMO is pacing around his office, hands clasped behind his back, shaking his head. “They weren’t gone long enough! Specialist Burnham hasn’t been aboard Discovery long enough—hell, in order for this to happen she would have had to be pregnant during the Battle of the Binary Stars! She’s undergone two physicals here on Discovery and I’m damn sure we would have caught _that_.  Are you certain this child is…human?”

“Yes sir,” Culber answers. The Chief is not the only person struggling to make sense of things. It takes at least 40 weeks to gestate a human child and the captain and specialist haven’t been missing anything like that amount of time. But he baby he delivered is, according to all of the initial tests, a fully developed human baby. It is also more …

“There’s something else you should be aware of,” Culber says, hating himself for drawing it out. But it has to be addressed.

“What else can there _possibly_ be?” The CMO is exasperated, and Culber understands completely. How the hell are they supposed to explain any of this to Starfleet Medical? They cannot even explain it to themselves.

“The baby’s father is Captain Lorca.”

Good thing the office is soundproof. Because the CMO starts cursing like an Aldeberan. Culber winces.

“… Anything else, Dr. Culber?” The look on his face! Culber sighs inwardly. 

“Actually, sir, there is.” He elects to just drop the bomb rather than try for diplomacy. “This baby is carrying alien DNA.”

“Oh, for fucksake,” says the CMO. “I need a drink.”


	6. Reflections

 “I’ll see Burnham to her quarters sir, you’re free to go,” Culber tells him. But Lorca shakes his head.

“No. She’ll be in mine.”

“But sir!” It’s a direct breach of protocol, not to mention the way the doctor knows it will look.

“No ‘buts’.” Lorca looks down at Burnham and she nods in agreement.

“We’ve discussed it, and I feel it would be best for us,” she tells Culber. “Besides, there is no space for Uriel in the quarters I share with Cadet Tilly.”

 “We can move Tilly elsewhere,” the doctor says, attempting to talk both of them down. But he is starting to see their minds are made up. And it is here, that he also realizes something else. Both Burnham and Lorca are equally as stubborn.

“I want to be with my son. She wants to be with her son,” Lorca tells him. “And we’re not splitting the baby.”

 Culber tries again. “Captain, with all due respect—you realize what it will look like…”

“You think I honestly give a damn what it looks like?” Lorca raises an eyebrow at him and crosses his arms, refusing to be moved in any other direction than the one he’s set on. “My kid. My ship. My rules. My quarters are large enough. And what will it look like for you to be wheeling Burnham to her quarters with a baby in her arms?”

Realizing the futility of an argument, Culber glances around the sickbay, before settling on one of the small incubator stations.

“I can have one of these brought to your room, sir,” he says, motioning to it.

“Don’t need it. We already have one.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” It’s Burnham again, this time, looking at Lorca. “It was brought up from the planet last night.”

That pretty much settles everything else. But Culber cannot help uttering one last word of warning.

“I strongly advise against this.”

“Do Starfleet regulations specify that it cannot be done?” Burnham asks. He glances at her, knowing she already knows the answer. In fact, Starfleet regulations directly state that families should be kept and moved together when possible. And there’s nothing in the regs that spell out what to do when it’s a captain and a prisoner with a baby. He can only sigh, knowing they’ve got him beat for the moment.

Damn those two.

Seeing Culber’s expression, Lorca nods. “Can you just beam Burnham and Uriel straight there? I’ll walk. Oh, and Doctor?”

“Yes, sir?”

The captain steps up to him and clasps his shoulder firmly.

“Thank you.”

It’s as close to sentiment as Lorca gets and the words take him aback a moment.

“You’re… welcome sir. And…congratulations.” Because…what else is there to say right now?

.

.

As Lorca makes his way down the passageways, the crew stare at him with relieved, yet cautious smiles. Some of the stares are shocked, others more curious and it’s a reminder—he’s been gone quite a while. He nods curtly, but with a curve of his mouth, staving off anything more than a “Welcome back, Captain,” yet knowing he needs to be seen in order for them all to resume something close to normalcy.  But all is well when he enters Room 2-1-1-2, and sees Michael and Uriel are already there.

He settles on the bed beside her. Uriel is curled against his mother’s chest, alert but quiet, and they’re studying each other. Gabriel leans over to kiss her neck and then leans down, rubbing noses with his baby.

Uriel blinks, slightly puzzled, but those gray-green eyes follow his moments.

He loves it. Loves this. A little family all his own.

“I think that went well,” he says, settling back on the bed against the wall before helping Michael shift, and bringing her into his lap so he can wrap his arms around them.

“Yes, but…for how long? We cannot keep Uri a secret, Gabriel. Eventually others will know. The crew will know. And what about Starfleet?”

What about Starfleet? He knows the meeting with the admirals will not go well. But he also has the claim of paternity on his side. And if what the doctor says is true—that they were gone weeks instead of months, then it bolsters his claim. Not that it’s a lie, exactly, but the admirals will be more inclined to believe them. He will have violated no rule or regulation. And as for the moment, he is pleased to see Discovery still intact. Saru can remain in charge a while longer.

 There will be questions, more tests.

They will be interrogation but he knows there are no federation policies that encourage breaking up families. And while there are rules against children aboard Starships, there have been cases of children being born on them.

Normal protocol requires mother and child to stay together, but Michael…

At that, a whole other set of problems are inherent. While she is his wife, it is by agreement not decree. Theirs is not a marriage recognized by federation law and she is still a prisoner as well. One who is under his command.

 “Starfleet will be…a problem,” he admits. “But not one that can’t be worked out.”

At that, she hums low under her breath, running a finger down the side of Uriel’s cheek. He blinks at the both of them, and they smile simultaneously, peering down at their son.

It is a problem, but not one to deal with right now.

.

.

Michael and Uriel are sleeping. It’s late at night, but Lorca can’t rest. Instead, he gets up and checks the bassinet, reassuring himself that his son is safe, before he goes into the lavatory and closes the door. That had taken a little work. The crude furs that were stitched together were decontaminated and placed back inside with some additional blankets replicated. But the result is satisfying. It’s protective, and paternal of him, but he can’t help but be proud of his efforts.

The old pajamas go into the fabric recycler, having served beyond their retirement date, and the captain steps into the sonic shower, allowing the steam to fill his lungs, expand his chest and work its way through and around his body. It’s warm, a sensation that feels almost new against skin that had grown acclimated to cold, and for a moment, it is also…disorienting.

The night before, they had fallen asleep in their home on an unknown and uncharted planet, secure and secluded among the trees set only feet away from a smooth, sandy beach. It was crude, what they’d built there. But their shelter was strong and warm. Peaceful. But grudgingly and only to himself, he admits this situation is likely better—for Uri, at least. If not for them. Here, aboard Discovery, and in the federation, he knows his son will have a future. But as for his parents…well…that is another matter entirely.

Lorca has expressed to Michael a confidence that wavers. He is not so sure the admiralty will be  accommodating. He’s got to find a way to make a stronger case.

And he needs to know what has passed in his absence. Exactly how long have they been gone? And what has occurred since then?

Out of the shower, he gets his first look at himself in more than a year. No wonder the crew looked so curious about his appearance. The face that stares back at him comes as a shock. He blinks and leans in closer, not really recognizing this stranger in the mirror, but as he touches his hair, his face, his eyes, he knows, buried beneath the all of this…is the man he was. And for a moment, that is enough to still his hand.

Does he want to go back to being that man?

…the stern, condescending, emotionally dead Captain who sent a lover to her death without a twinge of conscience? Does he want to be the man who killed more than 100 people, under the guise of “saving” them? Does he want to be the person he was…or the one he’s becoming?

Lorca closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

Scissors wielded by a trembling hand, the first lock of hair falls. Then another.

And another.

Slowly, he becomes steadier in the movement.

The hair gets shorter. Then, the beard. A tight trim with scissors, a brief consideration as to whether he wants to keep it – but it makes him look a bit fiendish, he thinks. He cocks a smile at the mirror. _I’m already fiendish enough. At least I have been._

He brings out the razor, and with surety begins to finish off the rest, tapering his hair in the traditional Starfleet cut. The beard disappears, leaving only pointed sideburns. And when he’s done, he finds a uniform and puts it on.

The reflection in the mirror is familiar.

But he knows the person that occupies this body is not.

And for that, he is grateful. He’s got something, someone… some _ones_ , to live for again.

Michael and Uriel are still asleep when he comes back out and he stands over them a moment, watching.

How peaceful they both look. His wife, dark hair framing her head like a halo, and his son, his tiny body swaddled tightly and tucked securely in the bassinet beside her.

He can feel his smile as he settles back down into bed.

 This time, he does sleep…for about 30 minutes, until a small cry wakes him and he reaches over to pick Uri up. Beside him, his wife stirs.

.

.

Though Dr. Culber has released them, both he and the CMO are strict about what Michael can and cannot do. She, Lorca and Uriel are left alone for the first two days, but on the third, the Chief Medical Officer comes to their quarters to check on mother and baby.

“Good,” he says, after giving her a thorough once-over. “You’re doing quite well, Burnham. As we discussed the other day, the blood flow will stop on its own after about six weeks. But NO working.” At that, he looks at the Captain, sternly. “The only thing she can do is walk, play with that baby, eat, mother, and sleep. Are we understood?”

He knows better than to test the Chief. This is the man who will determine whether he can go back on duty, so for the moment, Lorca is compliant. “Understood.”

“Oh—and I know I shouldn’t have to say it but, since you two are…co-habitating…no sex.” The doctor looks at both of them sternly. He may be old, but he’s not dumb. And to be frank about it, he puts nothing past Lorca. There’s still no explanation for this “miracle” baby, but he doubts it was immaculate conception. Or, what was it Lorca had told Culber? Insemination? Inwardly, he rolls his eyes.

But the words do have an effect. Michael blushes, and tucks her face into Uriel’s little body and Lorca raises two eyebrows, crossing his arms and pursing his lips, saying nothing aloud. _You crotchety old fucker!_ is written plainly across his face.

The CMO makes it through the door with a straight face, but it doesn’t last. The door slides shut and a grin breaks out.

The baby, the doc thinks, will be good for them. Lord knows, after all the stress this crew has been under…the baby may be good for us all.

But there’s still the matter of what to put in his report to Starfleet.


	7. Interrogations Part 1

 

“Gabriel, can you take Uri, please?”

“Of course.” He picks up his son. These early days have been pleasant. So far, Uriel has turned out to be an easy baby. Non-fussy, except for when he’s hungry or wet or…shitty. And they’ve quickly learned how to tell the difference between the cries he makes. Right now he’s alert but quiet, and when Lorca gets him, he’s rewarded with what looks to be a little smile…

“Oh!”

Or not. Lorca turns away, trying to suck in fresher air and gathering up the nerve…

Daddy checks the diaper and is momentarily relieved. It’s just gas. For the moment.

Michael laughs, then clutches at the sting in her lower belly.

The birth went well, despite its circumstances, but it’s only been three days and she’s nowhere near healed. There’s still pain in her hips and pelvis, and between her legs is sore. She has only really moved from the bed to the bathroom and back to the bed, but today…a shower is calling.

Seeing her struggle, he comes to help, allowing his wife to use his shoulders to sit up and eventually stand.

She strips off the gown she’s been in and gingerly takes her first steps into the bathroom. Her image in the mirror gives her pause. She has never been a vain woman but… Michael turns sideways and stares down her body. At the sight of her stomach she swallows, feeling a swell of…something very much akin to…sadness. For the first time, she does not fully recognize herself.

Her breasts are full, far larger than they were before, and her arms and legs, thicker too. She had known she was gaining weight but the belly was the focus and Gabriel had said how much he loved it, loved her, all of her but this…

Her stomach now is far smaller but it looks…warped, almost. Deflated. And she’s taken aback by the sight of the faint, but still visible marks that spread like tree limbs beneath her belly button…

Slender fingers trace each one. There are five altogether, not many, but enough to mark her as someone different from who she was.

Michael sighs, and turns away from herself. It is irrational, she knows. They have a healthy baby boy. They survived their circumstances—imprisonment. Torture and isolation, and so much more. To worry about this, about something so trivial, makes no sense. So she brushes it away, and steps into the shower.

The steamy sonic waves feel good against her skin, and she allows the dense moisture to wrap her in a warm hug. The heat soothes her aching body, but as she cleanses herself and reaches down, just the slightest brush against her perineum brings a pain so severe her eyes water and she nearly doubles over. A reminder.

They have only been back for a few days.

A few deep breaths help her regain her composure, and carefully, she starts to work at her hair, and the curls become looser.

It is much longer now, thick and somewhat matted from lying on it these past few days and the detangling work goes slowly, her slender fingers deftly loosening it up. Gabriel isn’t the only one who wants to at least look, if not feel, normal.

After a while—a long while—she gets out, only to realize that all of her belongings are still in the room she shared with Tilly. With a sigh, Michael wraps a towel around herself and quickly braids her hair into two French braids, enough to keep it detangled and to allow it to dry.

Gabriel looks up as Michael steps back into the room. Uri is asleep on his father’s chest, both stretched out on the bed.

“I need…clothing,” Michael says, settling her body gently on the bed. She moves carefully aware that certain positions are…uncomfortable.

Seeing the gingerly way she carries herself, Lorca shifts Uriel to the bassinet and gets up, for the replicator.

The first set of Starfleet-issue pajamas are made quickly, but don’t fit. A sigh. “Too small.”

It is strange, she thinks, this different body, hers but certainly not the same. Another try, another size, this time with lined underwear, and a better, if not perfect fit.

Seeing her look of distress, Gabriel wraps his arms around her waist, careful not to squeeze her too tightly, gives her gentle kisses on the back of her neck, coupled with a soothing rub of her shoulders, her sides.

He doesn’t have to say anything. He knows she knows.

They know.

Both look over at their baby, sleeping away peacefully, the small chest rising and falling quickly.

.

.

It’s been a week.

An entire seven days since Burnham and Lorca returned. And while the Captain has been busy with reports, check-ins, and generally getting caught up on all he’s missed…Burnham is nowhere to be found.

And Tyler can’t stand it anymore.

Dr. Culber won’t say anything. The CMO won’t say anything. Forget asking Lorca. And what the hell is up with this mysterious baby? Aside from its initial cries—which he KNOWS he heard—there’s been nothing. Everyone has been tight-lipped. Including Saru.

“Sir! There’s got to be SOMETHING you can tell me!” He tried to plead, even negotiate for information but nothing.

“My apologies, Lieutenant, but I cannot.”

“But I’m the one who told YOU.”

“And for that, I am grateful; now if you will excuse me, I have a meeting,” the Commander said, walking past him and off the bridge.

Which is how Ash ends up sitting next to Tilly, the two of them at a back table in the mess, the rest of the crew oblivious to them.

“You heard anything?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Nope. All I know is Michael was released from Sickbay. But she hasn’t come back to our quarters.”

“Hmm.” Tyler stares down at his tray, picking dejectedly at his food. All he wants is to know that Michael is all right. “And no one will tell us what’s going on.”

“You know what I think…” Tilly leans in, her voice dropping low. He leans closer too.

“What?”

“I think they’re hiding something.”

Understatement. He snorts, sitting back in his chair, giving up on food. “Well, there’s that.” It comes out sarcastic. “Come on, Sylvia—what about that kid? I know you heard the crying. But where is it? Whose is it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything more than you do.”

They look at each other, pondering the mysterious circumstances.

.

.

Uriel is now 13 days old. And today, they have to answer for him.

Michael dresses with care—a new uniform, larger—still no badge, however. It is not lost on her that the Board of Inquiry, made up of several admirals, will decide the fate of her and her child. And, to an extent, her husband. She does not look forward to hearing what they will say.

They must all report individually.

Dr. Culber and the CMO have given their professional assessments and conclusions, based largely on the physicals both Lorca and Burnham were given upon their return as well as their direct observations and psychological debriefings. And now, it is her turn.

When she stood before them and heard their judgement at her court-martial for mutiny, her mentor, Captain Georgiou had just died. Michael Burnham was a broken woman. She accepted the verdict of the court unquestioningly, resigned to a fate she felt she deserved.

But now … now she knows with certainty that her decision on the Shenzhou to attempt a first strike against their enemies was the right one. She has witnessed the destruction and loss of lives the Klingons have brought to the federation, lived the life or death struggle time and time over, and as time has passed in this war, her perspective has changed accordingly. She has studied Klingon tactics, and she believes that, had she succeeded with the “Vulcan hello,” the federation would have been safer for it.

She will not accept any decision that will take her away from her son forever.

And in the privacy of their shared quarters, prior to her hearing—she tells Lorca this, and she is firm, determined in it.

“I know. And I will never let it happen.”

It is not as reassuring as he wants it to be, and she nods curtly before she goes.

It is her first time out in the corridors of Discovery since the return—the first time she sees other crew members—but she doesn’t greet them. Just nods at them in acknowledgement. There is only one goal now; all others have fallen to the wayside. Her sole objective is to preserve their family. In whatever way possible.

Her first steps into the senior conference room convey a confidence she does not feel, but decades of training keep her still. And while a chair is offered to her, she prefers to stand, falling easily into “parade rest,” arms folded high behind her waist, legs braced slightly apart.

The admiralty appear before her as holograms.

“Michael Burnham. Again.”

It is Admiral Terral.

“Yes sir.”

There are no formalities.

“Please describe the circumstances of your alleged abduction.”

To the untrained ear, Terral’s voice appears emotionless, but she was raised on the same planet he is from and they are far more similar than they are different. Burnham knows that tone. He is needling her. Looking for cracks in her façade. For anything that will confirm his already-formed bias. “Alleged,” indeed. On this, she doesn’t yield.

“I feel asleep at approximately 2300 hours and when I awoke, I was in a cell of earthen form. I noticed the captain approximately two meters away from me. I attempted to wake him. Together, we tried to determine our whereabouts.” She recounts the tale, stating events plainly.

“Eventually, after repeated periods of unconsciousness, we began to lose track of time. At times, I was taken separately from Captain Lorca by our captors. Following a period during which he was beaten severely and repeatedly, we were moved to a different location.”

An Andorian admiral leans in, her voice gentle. “And the means of your escape?”

“We did not escape. We were set free.”

“And the circumstances of your…pregnancy? We understand there is a child?”

Ah. The point.

 She meets their eyes steadily.

“Yes.”

Confirmation.

“And you expect us to believe in immaculate conception?” Terral, again. He is testing. Probing.

She does not give. “I have no expectations concerning your personal beliefs, sir. I can only tell you what is.

“Human gestation is approximately 40 weeks,” Burnham says. “Dr. Culber has told us we were not gone anywhere near that amount of time. I can only speak to what happened to me.”

“And exactly what happened to you?”

“I conceived a child. And he was born. I believe Dr. Culber and the CMO have stated that it is, in their own words, ‘impossible’.”

The admirals silently look at each other.

She wonders if they will ask the logical question. But apparently, there are limits, even to something like this.

“That will be all. You are dismissed.”

Burnham comes to attention, turns about-face, and exits the conference room.

She is mid-way down the corridor when she sees Lieutenant Tyler heading directly toward her.

“Michael!” He comes smiling broadly, draping his arms around her in an enthusiastic hug, and she stiffens, both because the touch is uncomfortable and also because…it hurts.

She steps back, assuming a gentle expression, and nods. She and Ash were close, before. And now, she is in a completely different stream of existence: motherhood, marriage, and hopefully, resuming a career.

“Lieutenant Tyler.”

“We’ve been worried about you! What happened? Are you all right? Where’ve you been and what’s going on?”

 So many questions, and only one is she willing to provide an answer for.

“I am well. Thank you for your concern. But please excuse me; I have things I need to attend to…”

But he’s in front of her, earnest brown eyes searching hers, nothing but concern in his face.

“Michael, talk to me. How—how did—I’m trying to understand, and Tilly’s wondering too…is there…a baby?”

At the word “baby,” she hesitates. He sees it.

“Did you…have a baby?”

“I…” She opens her mouth then closes it and takes a deep breath. Stilling herself. And when she speaks again, it’s affirmation.

“Yes.”

At that, it’s Ash’s turn to take a step back, in shock.

“But…but… how?”

“I cannot explain that.”

“You can’t…or you won’t?” His eyes narrow, but his voice is low, urgent. “Michael, please tell me what happened. Please.”

She stiffens. “I cannot explain it.” She means it literally—but also means that she prefers not to say—and Tyler’s expression is puzzled, and hurt. Her next words are awkward, but Ash deserves some acknowledgement of their past friendship. “I … I wish you well, Lieutenant.”

Moving quickly around him, she walks away. She can feel his gaze as she leaves him standing in the passageway. When she finally gets back to the captain’s quarters, Lorca is there, holding Uriel.

“What’s wrong?”

It’s in her face, she knows.

“What happened at the hearing?”

“It is not the hearing,” she tells him. “It’s Lieutenant Tyler. He knows about Uriel.”

Lorca pauses, checking out his baby, then reaches out to pull Burnham close to him, mindful of her body’s tenderness.

“Well, if things go our way, most of the crew will know,” he says. “Does this bother you? That people will know?”

She considers it and upon reflection makes a decision.

“No. All I want is to keep Uriel safe.”

“That we’ll do,” he tells her, kissing her forehead before handing the baby to her.

“I’ll be back.”


	8. Lorca's Turn in the Barrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Admirals - five of them, all asking the same question. Lorca tries to hold his temper.

**Chapter 8**

His turn in the barrel, as the old Academy expression goes.

Lorca steps into the conference room and the admirals on the Board of Inquiry appear in holo form. The Vulcan Terral; Admiral Sh’lehn, an elder female Andorian; Xhn, the first Cassiopean admiral in Starfleet, at least two meters tall, rivaling Commander Saru; and two very quiet junior admirals – humans – one female, one male, studying their PADDs. Doubtless delegated to take notes and comments for the record, then vote, bless their hearts (as Lorca’s Nana would say).

Terral leads off. “Michael Burnham has told us a most unusual story, Captain.”

“Well sir, I’ll be pleased to tell it to you again, if you wish,” Lorca says, all Southern charm.

“We have been briefed by the Chief Medical Officer and Dr Culber,” says Admiral Sh’lehn, her antennae curving slightly forward. “We wish to hear your account of events.”

 _It was a dark and stormy night_ , he thinks, wishing he could speak his sarcasm aloud. “I reviewed departmental logs until about 2230 in my quarters, then went to sleep, and was abducted at approximately 2300 hours. When I woke up, I was in a prison, or a cell, at any rate. Dirt floor, clay walls, one barred window. Specialist Burnham was across the room. We looked for a way out and found none, and wearing our fleet-issue pajamas, only I had a phaser, which I tried to use to get through the cell door, no luck.

“Over the next few days we looked for ways to escape, but were always taken out of the cell separately. The aliens had no weapons of their own. They didn’t need any.”

Steeling himself, he recounts the beatings he endured. How he was taken and returned, time after time, the pains increasing, fresh wounds and bruises.

“They provided medications to heal me…just so they could start all over again.”

What he doesn’t tell them is how he had, at times, felt completely broken, but kept trying to sustain hope of escaping.

“We were waiting for the aliens to get careless. And I did manage to get one of the bastards.”

 But there are other things, more personal things, he elects to leave out. Physical pain has never bothered him. But the emotional wounds are still very real. The worst pain of all: seeing Burnham returned after being taken and absent for many hours, drawn deeply in upon herself, trembling and later, suffering nightmares. And blessedly, he remembers the healing they did together. The love they made, which sustained them through the months in Eden…

“…the amount of time you were gone?”

He catches himself and plays back the full sentence he’d heard while thinking of another place.

“No, Admiral. We had no idea how long we were imprisoned. It seemed like weeks, maybe even a couple of months. One day we found the door open, and supplies to live on the outside. So we took the opportunity. We began living outside and were there for about a year before Discovery found us.”

“Together, Captain? Had you two become … intimate?” asked Xhn, the tall, lean Cassiopean admiral who’d been intently making notes on hir PADD.

Lorca, standing at ease, puts a hand up to his chin, stalling to defuse his temper. _Strange how nosey Cassiopeans are about human sexuality. It’s a curiosity to them, being intersex and in constant empathy with their close social units. So calm down. Xhn is curious, not prurient. But then again…’intimate’ has many meanings, not just sexual, so…_

“Allow me to put it this way. We’ve been in prison for weeks, maybe months. We go free. We join forces to build shelter because it gets cold at night. We make fires to stay warm until our shelter is finished. We work to survive, because we have no way out of there and we can’t even build a radio.” It’s a dodge. Neither a confirmation, nor a denial.

“So you explored all avenues of escaping the planet, Captain?” Terral again.

 _Oh give me a goddamed break._ “Of course we did! … _Sir._ We dug, we broke rocks, we looked for metals, anything we could to make a fu—” he catches the expletive just in time – “to make a comms device. There was absolutely nothing to be found. _Yes_ , we tried, of _course_ we tried, for _weeks_. But as far as we walked, there was nothing but trees, and grass, and lakeside and water.”

And since he’s been out of the environment, he’s realized much of it looked similar to the area where they’d built their shelter… their home. Early on, when they walked out for a week and a week back, “Looking For Means,” as they came to call it, the landscape had barely changed. And again, on a longer hike, for several weeks and still no rocks or raw material to fashion a radio. An unchanging landscape is not so odd, though; North America’s Appalachian Trail looks fairly similar for days of foot travel.

_Should I have realized it was illusory? he wonders. Should I have known? But how the hell would I have known if my mind was influenced by the aliens …? Did they make us passive? Did they create the love, or did we?_

That question has disturbed him, on and off, but every time he looks at Michael he knows it doesn’t matter now. The question is moot because he loves her, and she, him. And he would rather be damned than let her, or Uriel, go.

Admiral Sh’lehn: “At this point, did you have any idea where you were? If the Discovery could find you?”

“Please understand, Admiral: we didn’t _know_ where we were. We didn’t know if we would ever be found. We had no way to reach out—”

“So you reached toward each other,” Admiral Xhn sighs. “Human individuals – how romantic and fascinating!”

Terral quells hir with a look. Even Sh’lehn gives Xhn a side-eye.

“Indeed,” says the Vulcan. “You reached out toward each other. Did this not seem inappropriate to you, Captain?”

Lorca scoffs, letting out a half-laugh and a shake of his head. This time, there’s no holding back. He’s been trying to stay calm about it but the line of questioning is hitting a dangerous red line and he absolutely will not give them what he knows they’re searching for. A reason to screw both him and Michael over. _Time to shut this down. It’s gone on long enough_. As it sometimes does when Lorca is deeply annoyed, his Southern accent asserts itself.

“I don’t see anything romantic about trying to survive. Of _course_ we reached out to each other. We talked for long hours about why we went into Starfleet. Why Burnham did what she did at the Battle of the Binary Stars, her sorrow at the loss of Captain Georgiou. What our childhoods were like. We debated;, she taught me about Vulcan philosophy, we tried to recall and recite passages from books we both liked. I even sang.”

Terral’s posture has stiffened; the mention of Captain Georgiou and Burnham’s knowledge of Vulcan philosophy have disturbed him. _Asshole._

“We became friendly, but that was _it_. Do you think maybe we should’ve built shelters a mile apart?” He paces two steps and back, and looks at the admirals resolutely. Admiral junior admiral (female) puts down her PADD, straightens up and meets his eyes.

“So far as we were able to discover, we were the only two humans on the _planet_. We still have no idea who or what the aliens are. We had been released from torturous circumstances. We had no idea where we were. We had to rely on each other for _survival._ Please, if you have any suggestions for how we could have survived better with our sanity intact, it may help us out the _next_ time we get abducted.

“Oh—and maybe you could put those recommendations into the _field manual_.”

The sarcasm is unmistakable and the admirals look at each other. Xhn looks shocked, as if they hadn’t realized how hir comments would be interpreted. Quickly, Xhn tries to make up for it.

“My apologies, Captain, I did not…”

Now, he knows he’s got the Board. The tables are turned, and Lorca knows full well he is now in control of this meeting, and that he will determine what will be in the record. The narrative both he and Burnham want. The one that will serve them. He pivots fast.

“I understand, Admiral. I can see how our situation appears, and I would ask the same of my crew should any of them find themselves in a similar situation. That they survive at all costs, and keep their sanity. But as I have said—” He really wishes he could italicize “said” for them so they would finally get it—“we thought we’d be alone there for the rest of our lives. What would _you_ do if left alone, facing the possibility of never going home?”

“I cannot imagine such loneliness,” Admiral Xhn says, and stares at Terral. “Vulcans have very close bonds, don’t they? Can you imagine being apart from your family and your planet forever?”

“Any speculations I might have are immaterial to these proceedings,” Terral answers coldly.

Lorca’s eyes are as flinty as the Vulcan’s tone. “With all due respect, Admiral, I submit that a great many of your questions today are speculative, questioning actions in a past neither I nor Michael Burnham can change. Working together was necessary to our mental health and to our survival. Would you prefer that we had not survived, that we had not persevered and lived our lives as best we could under the circumstances? Would you prefer that two Starfleet officers be lost, and necessitate the costs and time to train two more?” He waits, knowing damn well the answer is yes, from Terral, but the Vulcan won’t say it.

“Preferences are equally immaterial.” Terral gives him an unblinking Vulcan stare.

_Luckily Sh’lehn is the senior admiral here. Because I do not have a friend in Terral._

“Captain Lorca,” Admiral Sh’lehn says, “We will consider the statements of Discovery’s medical officers, Michael Burnham and yourself. We’ll contact you when we have reached a decision.”

Admiral Junior Admiral (female) meets Lorca’s eyes again, and he gives her his best Sincere Look. If he’s not mistaken she gives him a sympathetic smile. Teral is still drilling him with that  gaze.

“Captain Lorca, you are dismissed,” says Admiral Sh’lehn.

He comes to attention.

The Andorian nods, her white hair gleams in a shaft of light, and the admirals’ holograms disappear.

.

 .

At Starfleet Headquarters, Admiral Sh’lehn turns to the others on the Board of Inquiry.

“From the questions you have asked, our positions on this matter seem clear. If there is any debate, or any facts that seem unclear, we should discuss them now.”

Admiral Terral looks disgruntled. (He almost always looks that way, Sh’lehn thinks, if Vulcans can look disgruntled.) “We have opinions, but no queries concerning any _facts_.” Terral shares a look with Admiral Mbundu, who raises an eyebrow and nods, as if to say, _very few facts have been discussed here_.

“I have no questions,” says Xhn. “These officers have been very brave under trying circumstances.”

“Michael Burnham is no longer an _officer_ ,” says Mbundu acidly.

The female junior admiral, as is the wont of a typical junior admiral in conference with senior admirals, stays silent, ruminating with a faraway look in her eyes. Then she looks at Mbundu, unnoticed by him, and her mouth tightens.

“Please report your thoughts on this matter and we will make our findings based on the majority opinion,” Sh’lehn says. She is pretty sure what the majority opinion will be.

.

Lorca is on his way back to Michael and Uriel. His steps quicken.

He couldn’t help trying to charm Admiral junior admiral (female). She is younger than he is, and susceptible. Martin, he thinks her name is. He thinks, hopes she’s on his side.

Kat Cornwell never liked Gabriel’s use of charm on others, but it’s as natural to him as breathing.

He charms when he wants to because it comes in handy, in boring Fleet formal functions, or when someone he dislikes receives a service award (he usually finds some way to issue a lovely sounding back-handed compliment), and in hearings like this one. After the Buran, he is certainly no stranger to debriefings and hearings, nor how to manage the questioners. Charm is an offensive and defensive weapon in his arsenal and he deploys it as needed. It just now came back to him is naturally as commanding the ship.

Will he turn back into the Gabriel he was before Eden? The man he was, constantly watching for and pressing advantages?

He could charmingly insert the knife and later icily give it a twist. He was a master manipulator: a handy tool for a commanding officer in some situations. But crews appreciate honesty and he has been as honest with them as he can.

He thinks of his wife and child. He has a possible challenge ahead because he knows Michael will catch him out if he reverts to his old habits. How will he manage a truce between his former self and the new? He doesn’t want to be that previous self again, but knows he will use those skills if Michael or Gabriel, even his crew, are threatened in any way. Otherwise he will be the new Gabriel Lorca, and he will be true to them. True in both senses of the word.

Sometimes Kat had called it dishonest, or “flirting.” Kat was never a flirt. She was direct, plain spoken.

Like Michael.

Nana always told him, “Gabriel, honey, you can charm the birds out of the trees, but mind they don’t shit on you on their way down.”

He hopes there’s no bird shit headed his way out of some imaginary tree. He’s already put up with enough chickenshit from Teral.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Your turn in the barrel" is the punchline of an old, very scabrous joke from the maritime tradition. You can probably find it somewhere on the interwebs.


	9. Findings

 

**Chapter 9**

.

.

**FINDINGS OF THE BOARD OF INQUIRY, PRELIMINARY, being the minority of Admiral Terral and Admiral Joseph Mbundu:**

**.**

**Situational Analysis.** Addressed in the Majority Opinion.

Captain Lorca and Michael Burnham appear to have been abducted by an advanced race of aliens as yet unknown to the Federation.

Medical records show that each individual was tortured, and each has aged approximately 13 months.

Burnham was possibly inseminated by the aliens with sperm from Captain Lorca, and, per the testimony of these individuals, without the knowledge of either party. Alien DNA was grafted into the gametes, per the results of research by Doctor Culber of USS Discovery. This is not a definitive finding, and the truth may never be known. That the alien DNA was grafted to the child’s has been definitively proven; however Doctor Culber’s “proof” of it having been grafted to the gametes before conception is supposition, as determined by Admiral Joseph Mbundu, a biologist assigned to this Board.

**Findings.**

It appears most likely that Captain Gabriel Lorca and Prisoner Number 182517 Michael Burnham have committed fraternization, giving in to a human tendency to bond in a time of loneliness and hopelessness. It is to be expected of any Starfleet officer to maintain the discipline of the service. While the circumstances on the alien planet were extreme, the two violated protocol by co-habitating and a child was conceived. It has not been proven that Burnham was inseminated against her will.

Captain Lorca and Prisoner Number 182517 Michael Burnham continue to cohabitate on board USS Discovery, a most unusual arrangement, even allowing for their desire to co-parent the child Uriel Lorca.

**Future Actions.**

Cautions to all Starfleet vessels shall be disseminated, and procedures put in place for debriefing personnel abducted, and mandatory reports by starship personnel of any unusual instance of this nature.

Captain Gabriel Lorca shall be reduced one grade in rank to Commander (O-5) due to his violation of Starfleet regulations and a breach of discipline, conduct unbecoming an officer.

A new captain shall be assigned as commander of USS Discovery.

Commander Saru of USS Discovery shall be reduced in rank to Lieutenant Commander (O-4) because of his failure to immediately report the disappearance of USS Discovery’s captain and a Starfleet prisoner.

The child Uriel Lorca shall be removed from the parents and placed in a research facility so he may be monitored for signs of alien abilities that may be detrimental to the Federation.

Prisoner Number 182517 Michael Burnham shall be remanded to the Starfleet brig nearest Discovery’s present location.

.

.

** FINDINGS OF THE BOARD OF INQUIRY, FINAL, being the majority, Admiral Sh’Lehn, Admiral Xhn, and Admiral Jeanne-Anne Martin: **

**Situational Analysis.**

Captain Gabriel Lorca; Federation Prisoner number 182517 Michael Burnham; attending physician Hugh Culber, and USS Discovery’s Chief Medical officer have presented testimony consistent with the circumstances of the abduction of Captain Lorca and Michael Burnham.

Burnham and Captain Lorca identified the approximate time of their abduction; both have testified to being removed against their will from Discovery and imprisoned on what we have found after extensive inquiry is an uncharted, unregistered planet.

According to medical records, Captain Lorca underwent extreme torture and inhumane treatment; and Burnham underwent emotional and possible physiological abuse resulting in insemination. On this the record is clear—neither was complicit in their captivity.

They were absent from Discovery for mere weeks, while both persons have testified they believed they were absent for a year or more. This is highly unlikely and yet parentage of said child has been confirmed through DNA testing, and Doctor Culber has determined that the aging of cells within the bodies of Captain Lorca and Michael Burnham is consistent with a time span of 12 to 14 months.

Burnham and Lorca were “returned” to USS Discovery upon the planet’s appearance to the ship, and the planet disappeared or was concealed with no signs of its existence registered by Discovery’s sensors thereafter.

**Findings.**

Neither Captain Lorca nor Michael Burnham had knowledge beforehand of what was going to happen to them.

They were abducted by an advanced race of aliens still unknown to the Federation.

Burnham was inseminated by the aliens with sperm from Captain Lorca without the knowledge of either party. Alien DNA was grafted into the gametes, per the results of research by Doctor Culber of USS Discovery.

**Therefore, neither Captain Lorca nor Michael Burnham shall be charged with improper conduct.**

**Cautions.**

There is alien DNA present in the child that was born. The child Uriel Lorca must be monitored by Starfleet doctors and scientists for any emerging abilities that would render him dangerous to USS Discovery, Starfleet, or the Federation in general.

All Starfleet vessels shall have a copy of this report with names and particulars redacted. Any ship encountering this alien race shall immediately contact Starfleet Command. All of ships’ personnel actions in such circumstances shall be reported, and any ships’ personnel abducted shall also be debriefed, their debriefings to be immediately submitted to Starfleet Headquarters.

**Future Actions.**

The child Uriel Lorca shall remain with his parents for a period of six months. This will allow for a solid bond between Uriel and his parents, providing a healthy grounding for optimum child development. At any time of danger aboard the ship, he shall be transported to a place of safety aboard. If the ship’s destruction is imminent, Uriel Lorca shall, if possible, be transported in an escape pod with his mother, Michael Burnham. Failing that, he shall be accompanied by a doctor or nurse.

Captain Lorca and Michael Burnham wish to co-parent this child, and will retain parental rights; however, after the first six months Uriel Lorca must be placed in foster care as long as his parents are serving aboard a starship. The parents will have final determination on the child’s placement. Michael Burnham’s visitation rights will be determined by an authority outside of this Board; Captain Lorca shall have visitation rights with consideration of USS Discovery’s schedule.

Starfleet or Federation scientists and physicians shall continue to monitor the child Uriel Lorca for signs of alien intelligence at work.

.

.

Admiral Sh’lehn gives a small sigh as she submits the Board’s formal report to the Personnel Division at Headquarters, with copies to each Board member. Terral will not be pleased, but Sh’lehn is relieved. Why punish Lorca and Burnham twice? Their imprisonment, torture, and isolation on a mysterious planet had been punishment enough. Perhaps it had not been all bad for them, later, but that is fine with her. Stranger things have happened to members of Starfleet; it’s all part of the job, she’d been told once.

She calls her lanky Cassiopean friend, and Xhn walks with her to get a cup of tea in the Officer’s Mess. Both of them are smiling.

 


	10. Grandparents Day

Today is the day they have decided to reveal Uri to their parents. It is something Michael has struggled with, something she and Gabriel have argued over—how they want Uriel to be raised.

“No offense, Michael, but look how you turned out,” he’d told her.

“What, exactly do you mean… _sir_?” she’d replied with dead eyes.

It was then Gabriel knew immediately he had crossed a line. She had gone straight into Vulcan-defense mode, all traces of warmth vanishing instantly, leaving him with a foe far more formidable than any Starfleet inquiry board. This was an argument he neither wanted, nor would win.  At least—not if he wanted to sleep in his own bed and not his ready-room, which he did, and does.

 “All I’m saying, is I don’t want Uriel growing up to think being human is some sort of defect, he tells her, reaching for the baby who is presently resting on Michael’s shoulder and looking at him quietly with those wide, beautiful peepers, one hand in his mouth, sucking on it and drooling a bit. He smiles and gets closer to Uri, coming nose to nose.

“Daddy just wants what’s best for you,” he says gently, to Uri and to Michael.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he says standing upright again. “I think there are definite benefits, but you know better than most what he would face on Vulcan.”

“I believe it would make him stronger,” Michael says defensively, handing Uriel over. He takes his son into the crook of his arm, supporting his head carefully.

“I think that’s a load of crap,” he says, pushing back. “Think about yourself. If you had a choice, would that have been it?”

“Your question is irrelevant as I cannot—” It’s then Michael catches herself, and Lorca quiets with a tiny smile of satisfaction as she looks up at him, considering.

Point made.

“What about your parents?” she asks.

He sighs.

 “Michael, my mothers are in their 90s. And even though it’s not old, they’re not exactly the baby-cooing types. All I’m saying is, we should set…conditions,” he tells her.

She nods.

“Very well. I will contact Sarek and Amanda. I don’t know if Sarek will be amenable, but…Amanda may be. What about your mothers though. I do believe they should meet Uri, if possible.

“Yes,” Gabriel says looking down at a tiny face that, he has to admit, does resemble his own as a child, “I think they’ll be pleased I finally made one before it was ‘too late’.”

.

.

“I don’t believe it,” his mother says when he calls home. Her eyes narrow at him. “What did you do, Gabriel? Did you lie to the woman? Trick her? How the hell did you find someone that would let you stick it—“

“Mildred!” His other mother, Lurlene’s face appears on the viewer, saving Gabriel from further embarrassment. Mildred’s mouth is exactly the reason he’s tried to keep such conversations to a minimum. It’s not that he does not have affection for his parents, however, he learned a long time ago to keep certain things—such as his personal relationships, personal. They are the same in both worlds, it appears.

Next to him, and out of sight, is Michael, looking highly amused at his plight.

“I didn’t… lie,” he says. “It’s…complicated. Just…do you want to see him?”

“And I want to see _her_ , if she’s near.” Mildred again.

 He motions to Michael who steps forward, baby in arms.

“Hello,” she says.

Both of his mother’s gasp in shock.

“Oh, Gabriel,” Lurlene says, eyeing Michael and Uriel. “They’re lovely.”

“I cannot believe you let my son sweet-talk your panties off,” Mildred says, but she seems to think about her next words as she looks at Uriel who is staring curiously in the direction of the screen.

“But I’m very glad you did. He’s beautiful…” what’s your name, Hun?”

“Michael,” she supplies.

“Now that’s fitting,” Lurlene says to Mildred who nods in agreement. “And what’s our grand-son’s name?”

“Uriel,” Gabriel says, smiling at Michael and the baby. He can’t really help that. It’s a rare point of agreement with his mothers. Michael and Uri are lovely. The best things that ever happened to him.

“Uriel,” Lurlene repeats, considering. “Gabriel. Michael, and Uriel. Going for the triumvirate, are you?”

He reaches down to move a tuft of jet-black hair out of his son’s face.

“Something like that,” he says.

“When do we get to see him in person?” His mother’s ask. At this, Gabriel looks at Michael.

“Well, we wanted to talk to you both about that. That’s also…complicated. Can you meet us in six months on Vulcan?”

.

.

The second call is far harder, and Michael is not sure what to expect. Her last interaction with her adopted father had culminated in a denial on Sarek’s part about his feelings regarding surrogate fatherhood. But she knew the time would come eventually when they would have to speak about such things again—she just had not expected it would be so soon.

“Sarek,” she stands formally in greeting, her salutations proper.

“Michael…” he says, equally as formal. “Why have you contacted us?”

She has reached them at home—Mount Seleya looms in the background, the red dunes and orange suns cast a mesmerizing glow across the courtyard she can see from the system. It causes a swell of emotion…home. And it pains her that it could very well be a place she will never set foot, or eyes on, again.

Behind Sarek comes a voice. “Michael? Is that you?”

 And then a vision, resplendent in white, her long robes cut close against her lithe shape, the face full of light and love. Amanda.

“Greetings Amanda,” Michael says, “I wished to speak with you both.”

“Oh, thank Surak! I’m so glad to see you, I’ve been so worried—everything that’s happened….are you…free? Sarek says you’re on the ‘Discovery’?”

At the hopeful look in her guardian’s face, Michael’s own brave façade begins to waver.

Gabriel is sitting beside her, just out of sight of the comm, and he puts a hand on hers, steadying her.

“I am…well,” she says, swallowing back the emotion. “But I am not quite… ‘free’.”

“Oh.” Amanda’s face falls but she tries again. “Michael, don’t worry, one day, they’ll see they were wrong. Just be brave. You know we love you. Sarek, Spock and I—that we love you and that we’ll always be there.”

“I understand.”

It is Sarek, who interrupts. “You have called on us, Michael? Why?” His always keen eyes examine her, and she knows that though she says nothing, he has likely sensed it.

“You are hiding something,” he says, the statement free from accusation. It is almost…gentle, if she could call it that, and in her mind, she hears him speak.

_You can say it. It is alright…you will not be judged again…_

“I… am in need of your…assistance,” she begins, haltingly. “There has been an…incident.”

“Are you alright?” Amanda again. And this time, she smiles, moved at Amanda’s parental instinct. It is something she did not understand until she became a mother herself. It used to embarrass her as a child, the way Amanda often fussed over her as she struggled to blend in with the rest of the Vulcan children but now, she can see the reasoning behind the efforts. And she can also see Gabriel’s argument as well. While she was afforded many benefits of being raised on Vulcan, there were…drawbacks as well. And this, a secure bond with one’s parents, was one of them.

“I have become a parent, to a child.” She says.

Sarek raises a single eyebrow and Amanda looks shocked. “I don’t quite understand…did you _find_ a child?”

“No. I delivered one.”

The eyebrow goes higher and the other comes to match it.

“Explain.” He deadpans.

_Obfuscation is unbecoming, Michael…._

_I understand, father._

“I conceived a child. And he was born. The circumstances are…complicated,” she says.

“But HOW?” Amanda looks at her in confusion. Sarek’s lips take an almost imperceptible turn downward.

_Michael…_

She hears the warning though he is silent.

“Captain Lorca and I were abducted. We were imprisoned and we…” Her eyes flit to Gabriel and back. But it is too late. Sarek has seen it?

“Captain…Lorca?” He stares at her with a father’s ire.  “The father is…Gabriel Lorca?”

This time, there is blatant disbelief. Gabriel leans over to Michael, and, just out of eyesight and earshot whispers to her: “I never thought I’d see the day when a Vulcan expressed something akin to…disapproval,” he teases. “I guess your dad doesn’t like your new boyfriend.”

“Shut up,” she snaps at the smirk playing across his face.

“I beg your pardon!” Amanda blinks, and she and Sarek are now staring at her and Michael realizes her  calm façade has essentially cracked.

“Yes, Sarek. The father is Captain Lorca. And yes, we have a son.”

At that, they fall silent.

“What will you do,” Amanda asks, quietly, looking to Sarek who stares ahead mutely.

“Because of the circumstances of Uriel’s birth, Starfleet has decided that he cannot remain with us,” she says. “They have ordered us to…” this time, she feels the sharpness much more acutely. The pain of impending separation from her son, and the monitor before her, along with Sarek and Amanda’s images, begin to waver. She does not cry. Has not, and she will not start now.

“Please,” it comes out hoarse…

“Please Sarek, Amanda, please take our baby.”

“Oh, Michael,” Amanda says, arms reaching out, but she stops, realizing that they are on opposite sides of the quadrant. “Of course. He’s our grandson, why would we not?”

Sarek looks at her, and she hears him clearly.

_Do you think me so cruel as to reject this child?_

“I wish to see him,” he says. “And I wish to speak with your… _Captain_ , as well.”

She moves to the side, allowing Lorca and Uriel to come into view. Both Sarek and Amanda lean in, examining the baby.

This time, Uriel is asleep, sucking away at his thumb and curled up, he looks impossibly small against his father’s chest. Tiny and delicate, really.

Amanda smiles, and wraps her arm around Sarek’s.

“He reminds me of Spock when he was little,” she says, looking longingly at her husband.

“That is impossible, Amanda, he is of completely different parentage.”

But there’s no malice in it, and Michael can hear the lilt of what passes for Vulcan humor in Sarek’s voice.

“Captain, Lorca,” Sarek says. “It seems we are meeting again under…unusual circumstances.”

“It certainly appears to be the case,” Gabriel says wryly. In his arms, Uriel shifts a bit and makes a small, mewling sound. Everyone sucks in a breath and goes quiet, but he doesn’t wake. And when Lorca speaks again, his voice is low, and much softer.

 “I know this is…odd, and not exactly ideal, but I didn’t manipulate Michael, if that’s what you want to know. And, we can forward the report from Starfleet if you like.”

“I do not need the report,” Sarek says, becoming a bit more taciturn.

“Captain Lorca, humans may be easily manipulated but I am Vulcan and even though we do not look it, please understand that human and Vulcan children are conceived in much the same way. We shall leave it at that. We will accept Uriel.”

“Thank you Sarek, but I have a few conditions,” he says as Michael draws a breath. He glances at her and she looks…stiff.

“Oh? And what are those conditions?” Sarek asks, eyes narrowing.

“That you won’t do to Uri what you did to Michael. Lie to him. Make him think he’s not worthy.” Lorca is blunt, leaving no room for any misinterpretation. It’s an issue he’s had with Sarek ever since Michael confided in him when they went to rescue the ambassador. It had angered him then, but he held his tongue, for her sake. Now, however, it is different.

Sarek’s lips become a thin line. It is Amanda who steps in.

“I understand Captain. Don’t worry, Uriel will be fine, here,” She tells them, “things are…changing, here.”

He nods briskly.

“Thank you, Amanda. Also…I have one more request.”

“And what is that, _Captain_?” Sarek seems very much unimpressed, but Lorca is insistent.

“I’d like for him to be able to spend a few weeks on Earth each year. With my mothers, if you don’t mind. Keep him balanced, so he doesn’t forget where he comes from.”

.

.

Gabriel is changing Uriel. The baby wiggles his little body and Michael smiles, watching her husband expertly grab the little legs by the ankles in one large hand, and quickly wipe the small butt while following up fast, sliding the new diaper in place. But he’s not fast enough, and has forgotten to cover the spout—and just as quickly, Uriel pees.

 In his father’s face.

It’s too much for her. Her husband jumps back and ducks into the bathroom, and she can hear the muttering and the curses pouring from him. She moves in and finishes the job, laughing.

“Did you really have to do that to your father?” She asks softly to the happy cooing of her baby. She tickles him gently under the chin, and it gets another coo from Uri. Gabriel comes walking back in, wiping his face.

“You piss on me, and smile at your momma,” he says, settling on the bed next to Uri. “I already see how this relationship is going to go with you.”

Uri blinks and makes little gurgling sounds as his daddy scoops him up and lays down on the bed, resting Uri on his chest. He grins, looking down his nose as the tries to inch himself up unsteadily, making grunting noises, the little limbs flailing as he works out how to get to his father’s face. Lorca’s large hands stand at the ready on either side of the little body, ensuring he doesn’t fall off, or roll over.

Eventually, he makes it up to Gabriel’s chin and father looks down into the big eyes of his baby.

And it doesn’t gross him out when Uriel drools just inches from his lips. Because this child, Gabriel marvels, is something he made.

“Daddy’s here,” he says, rubbing Uriel’s back. “And you’re safe with me.”

He looks at Michael, as she comes and lays down next to them.

“I love you,” he tells her. “And I know it’s going to be hard, but,” he reaches for her hand, locking their fingers together, and glancing down at Uriel. “He’s worth it, and we’re going to do it, together.” Lorca reaches for Michael’s shoulders and pulls her close, kissing her forehead. She smiles.

“I love you too.”

On his father’s chest, Uri makes a happy sound, little spit bubbles pooling on Lorca’s shirt. Daddy grins.


	11. Chapter 11

The first time Uriel smiles at them, it catches both Lorca and Burnham off guard, and they discuss it between themselves.

“He’s smiling,” she says, smiling back at their baby.

“Are you sure? It looks like the face he makes when he has gas,” he says, grinning, just in case.

“It’s a smile, Gabriel. Feel his belly,” Michael says, touching Uri gently. So he does, receiving a grin lights up his son’s entire face.

“Not gas,” he says, raising his eyebrows and making a face. It gets him a gurgle, and he laughs, taking a side-glance at Michael. She kisses Uri’s cheeks and his eyes follow her back and forth.

Michael gasps.

“Gabriel, watch—look what he does.”

Sure enough, Uri’s eyes track her movements as she moves herself to the left and to the right.

“Fancy that,” he says. “Hold on. I have an idea.”

He slips away and comes back a moment later, with a brightly colored toy that he waves in Uri’s face—moving it back-and-forth.

The gurgling sound again with a little grunting and a smile as Uri tracks the movement with his eyes and tries to wiggle on his back.

“I’ll be damned. I think he recognizes us,” Lorca says in amazement. There are a lot of these little moments. And each one becomes a treasure when they happen.

They love this child. Love him more than they’ve ever loved anyone or anything else. The skin-to-skin contact—the feel of his soft, silky body, the smell of him—like milk and powder, everything. It’s delightful. And for Lorca, more personal and deeper than any connection he’s ever had with anyone.

When he sees them both—Michael and Uriel-- it pulls at him and he tries to staunch the desire to take them both in his arms, and hold them there, forever, protecting them. Keeping them safe.

And as he watches Uriel with his mother, there’s something else again too.

Michael is walking around, baby in her arms and he comes up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck.

Uri is now six weeks old.

“How are you feeling?” Gabriel asks, alluding to a bit more than just health as he slides his hand down her sides and settle on her hips and pulling her against him, lips on her neck.

It’s later in the evening, and Michael has finished feeding Uri and is slowly putting him to sleep. Big eyes blink slowly, and the small mouth opens into a yawn.  She waits as he begins to drift off into sleep, and Gabriel releases her so she can put him to bed.

They go to bed too.

He slides her shirt off, and his pants come down, privacy is…overrated. Because right about now, his attention is diverted as he presses against her, kissing her bare shoulders, the back of her neck, one hand firm against her belly.

She hums at the touch, letting him do as he pleases, the tingle of arousal beginning.

Six weeks. Six very long, trying and yet rewarding weeks, the output of their effort, sleeping soundly beside their bed.

Eagerly, he slides himself between her thighs, relishing the heat of it and begins to thrust gently, not inside, but against her.

“Is this okay?”

She nods, body arching against the touch as the tingle becoming more intense. His hands slide up her chest, and around her breasts. 

But it all comes to a halt when Gabriel tries to get inside and Michael gasps and flinches, pulling away.

“What’s wrong?”

Michael in pain is unmistakable and he stops immediately and rolls her over so he can see her.

But she won’t look at him, just curls into his chest, breathless.

“Love, look at me,” he asks, more firmly this time, concern laced through it. She does, blinking rapidly, yet looking shaken.

“What happened?” He asks.

“It was painful. And not like…the first time.”

The first time.

Gabriel frowns as his wife burrows against him, and this time, he puts his arms around her and pulls her close, face in her hair.

“No rush,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

Although, he thinks, it would be even more okay if it was more than just the damn tip.

It is likely the wrong thought to have. And he knows it. Uriel even confirms it. Because no sooner does it pop into his head, his son starts to wail.

All other attempts at sexual intimacy are gone for the night, and for the next several, as Uriel turns from an easy baby into a parent’s nightmare—keeping both Michael and Gabriel trying to rotate shifts to deal with him.

.

.

“Alright,” Dr. Culber says, clapping his hands together and reaching for Uriel. “Let’s see who we’ve got here.”

He looks quite excited and Lorca and Burnham glance at each other. Lorca raises an eyebrow at her and she nods. Reluctantly, he hands over his son to the doctor.

Uriel gives Culber a wide, toothless smile and gurgles.

“That’s good!” He exclaims in a slightly high, exaggerated voice as he takes the baby and lays him down on a table.

“Let’s see how you’ve grown,” he says, leaning in and taking measurements, talking all the while to Uri with the same, soft, high tone.

“He’s grown an inch,” Culber tells them. “And good work, Michael, he’s gained 1.3 kilograms.”

There are more tests.

The doctor holds out his finger, and Uri follows it with his eyes and when he smiles at the baby again, Uri smiles back. That one irks Lorca, who crosses his arms, looking displeased.

Burnham sees it. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought those smiles were ours,” he says, sullenly.

Culber looks up.

“It means he’s starting to recognize people,” he explains. “Captain, Specialist, everything looks good. Your son is perfect.”

“Perfect, doctor?” Burnham tilts her head to the side. “Is that a professional observation or a personal one?”

Culber is now presently walking around Med bay, making faces at Uriel and the baby is waving his arms, and gurgling happily.

“Ah, a combination of both,” he says to a rather stern-looking Captain holding out his arms.

Reluctantly, he gives Uri back to his father but he can’t help but feel a bit wistful about it.

“Is that all?” Lorca asks. “Are we free to go?”

“Yes, Captain. You can take Uriel. But I still need Burnham,” he says.

Lorca looks at her and she puts a hand on his arm, knowing he’s extremely sensitive about leaving her alone. It started back on Eden, when she was taken and he couldn’t reach her, and it has, to an extent, continued onboard. The slight touch, is enough, and he nods to her and takes Uri with him as he goes.

“Alright, Michael. So, how are you doing,” Culber asks as she settles down on the exam table and takes off her jacket, allowing him to take her vitals.

“Well, so far, doctor,” she says, watching as he works.

“Are you still bleeding?”

“No.”

“And is everything functional?” He asks, pressing gently on her stomach. “Any soreness?”

“No, but…”

She fades off weighing whether to ask the…other thing. It’s much more personal and she is unsure of how to even approach the matter.

“What’s wrong, Michael?” Culber peers at her and takes a step back, giving her more space. It’s meant to show her that he poses no threat.

“Would this be considered confidential?” She asks quietly.

“Your medical records as it relates to Uriel are part of his files, but other medical concerns you may have are protected information,” he says.

“I do not wish to have this in my…files,” she says, and he nods slowly…trying to understand her concern.

“Well…conversations are certainly confidential,” he tells her. “Do you wish to…talk?”

Again, she weighs it. What has been said up to this point. What has been written and communicated to Starfleet regarding Uriel’s conception. Should that be called into question—she is not much concerned about herself, but she is worried for Gabriel. They have made a calculated risk and --

“Michael.”

Culber brings her back and she exhales deeply before speaking.

“I am experiencing…discomfort.”

He’s concerned. “Where? I thought you said you weren’t experiencing any soreness, or pain.”

“It’s not…constant,” she tries to explain. “It’s mostly, um…internal.”

“Where?” Culber whips out his tricorder and begins to examine her again, but this time, Michael stops him.

“Between my legs,” she cautions.

“Ah.” The doctor lowers the tricorder slowly, stalling to figure out exactly what to say. He had suspected it, but hearing it is another matter, and …

“When does this happen?”

“When I am intimately engaged.”

“Um…well… should you wish to engage in…intimate activities,” he almost chokes on the word. “I could provide you with some…lubricants that will assist. I would suggest going slowly,” he says, gathering himself. “It’s only been six weeks, and sometimes the body takes longer to adjust to penetration after childbirth. You may also find it does not feel…the same.”

Michael nods quietly and Culber leaves and comes back, giving her a small tube.

“Thank you.”

He nods.

“Also, you’re cleared for duty, specialist.”

It gets a tiny smile as she zips up her jacket and leaves the med bay.

“Oh, Doctor, I have another question.”

“Yes?” He asks, debating on what this one could be.

“Since both the Captain and I are set to return to duty, we have decided to take rotational shifts,” she begins. He cuts off.

“Don’t worry about that, Michael,” he says. “I have the admiral’s report and we are making provisions for Uriel here when you and Captain Lorca are on duty. Everything he needs, short of food, we’ve got. The nurses have already been prepped.”

“Thank you, doctor,” she says nodding, and goes.

It’s Culber’s turn to take a seat to ponder exactly what he may have just enabled. Ultimately, he decides, it is a private matter. No need to put anything in the medical files.

And he finds that he’s not exactly surprised by Michael’s disclosure, either.

Miracle baby, indeed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

“Are you ready to face the masses?” Gabriel asks, the morning of their first day back on duty. They will take Uriel to Sickbay together. Lorca does not want Michael walking down the passageways by herself with their baby in her arms. It just feels….wrong to him, to allow her to face what he knows will be a crew full of inquiring faces.

Uriel belongs to him as well. The redacted version of the admirals’ inquiry and findings has gone out fleet-wide, and while personnel on other vessels will likely have no clue who the corresponding officers are, Lorca’s crew is smart. And they will put it together quickly—he’s pretty damn sure they’ve done so already.

 It is better to face this together, rip the band-aid off fast, so to speak, and stem the tide of chatter early on.

To be frank about it, he’ll tolerate none of it, and plans to make that abundantly clear.

After all, it wasn’t their fault. It’s not like they asked for it. But they do own it.

Michael finishes feeding Uriel and hands him to Gabriel, before adjusting her bra and sliding the strap of the black, fleet-issue tank top back over her shoulder. She stands and zips her jacket and gathers Uriel’s things in a bag. The milk she froze the night before is taken out of the cooler, and an extra change of clothes is added as well. Culber had given them a list of items to bring along.

Still, she is nervous. The only other time she’s been out of quarters was to attend the “interrogation,” as they’re calling it, and to take Uriel to his check-ups. And both were done at times to minimize interactions with other officers.

“Don’t worry,” Gabriel says, leaning down to kiss his wife on the forehead, seeing the slight curve of her lips. He kisses those as well. Warm. And soft. “It’ll be fine.”

.

.

It feels like the longest trip.

They stride, side by side, down the corridor as curious crew members eye them.

Lorca nods in acknowledgement, Uriel tucked into his arm, but his demeanor, and slight smile, leave no room for questions—and his crew know to leave well-enough alone.

 Still, once Lorca and Burnham pass, they cannot help themselves, after having caught a peek.

“He is so _cute!_ ” Many of the officers say to each other, smiling.

Word spreads quickly – as it will, on a ship – through the crew of Discovery.

Uriel Lorca has made his first appearance.

.

.

“Now don’t worry,” Culber says as Lorca cautiously hands him his son. “We’ve got everything under control here, sir.”

“Are you sure?” The captain can’t help himself. He tries to hide it but he’s as nervous as Michael is. They’re both watching as the doctor adjusts the baby in his arms. Uriel begins to squirm a bit.

“Yes, we’re sure. Come, let me show you what we’ve set up.”

They follow Culber as he leads them to a place in Sickbay set up as a nursery. Clearly, the medical staff has gone all out. The wall boasts an animal mural—painted creatures from all over the galaxy—lions and tribbles and sehlats, oh my!—and the crib set-up features a matching theme—blanket and bumper. The floor around it has stuffed animals, some knit by Cadet Tilly, and the colors are soft pastels—grays, yellow, green, blue. It is a space for a baby, and when Gabriel and Michael see it, they relax visibly.

Next to the crib is a rocking chair and footstool.

“This is …” Burnham searches for the word, struck by the sentiment. She is moved.

“Perfect,” Lorca finishes for her. “Thank you, doctor.”

“You’re welcome.” Culber is already walking about sickbay, bouncing Uriel gently.

“Now, if there’s nothing else…” the doctor says, subtly attempting to guide them out the door.

But both are struggling, _as is natural,_ Culber thinks, mildly amused at their hesitation. Burnham and Lorca are the two least emotional people on this ship and yet, faced with the moment of separation, they’re struggling to just walk out.

“Alright, well…” Lorca clears his throat to distract from the sudden swell of emotion that is trying to surface. “Specialist,” he’s going for formal.

She nods as they turn. The doors open, but just as they take their first steps outside, Uriel calls them back, with two soft whimpers that become a wail.

Michael gasps and looks to Gabriel and he sees the slight panic in her eyes. They both break, and turn around.

Michael takes Uriel from the doctor and goes to settle onto the rocker, clutching her baby to her chest and Lorca comes over to her, leaning down to stroke their baby on the back. It’s both pathetic and adorable at the same time.

Culber stands back, arms crossed, sighing. He should have known it was going too easily. 

After a while, Uriel quiets, and he moves in, trying again.

“Captain, Specialist,” he tries. “Your shifts begin—”

“Oh…yes,” Lorca says, somewhat distracted. The baby has fallen asleep for the moment.

“Michael,” Culber urges, gently, his arms outstretched. “I promise he’s safe here. And he’ll be here when you come back.”

It is with great reluctance that she hands him over. Lorca puts his arm on the small of her back and brings her close, in a tender hug.

“Uri’s fine,” he tells her. “Come on. We have to go.”

“I did not think it would be so difficult,” she says into his chest. Her heart hurts. “I don’t want to leave him.”

“I know. I don’t either, but we’ll see him soon.”

“Your…work…” Culber says, once again, trying to gently herd them to the door while still holding Uriel. He knows they will follow the baby. And sure enough, they do.

The entrance to Sickbay opens once again and he steps into the hall. The parents follow.

“Alright, well. We will see you two later. If anything arises, I’ll page you.” Culber says again. “We’ll be right here waiting. Right where you left us.”

 He nods at them and steps back inside, the doors closing behind him, leaving Lorca and Burnham standing in the hall, looking sad.

.

.

The doctor is beyond pleased to have an infant in arms. And he’s quite satisfied with himself, having finally dispatched Uriel’s parents, to have the baby to himself. Having a child was something he and Paul had discussed—albeit briefly—but his husband had been adamant.

“No babies aboard a starship, Hugh. No babies at a time of war.  The risks …! Are you crazy?”

They haven’t spoken of it since then, but it is a long-held aspiration of Hugh’s, to be a father. To teach a child, influence a life, watch him (or her) grow, change, and one day, sit back and admire the work.

Uriel is nearly two months old now, and Culber’s the first person and really the only person available to watch over the baby consistently.  There is no safer place aboard Discovery than Sickbay, which, as long as the Captain isn’t picking fights with Klingons, is barely occupied except by the medical staff.

Uriel.  What a name.

“Well, you did drive your parents from Eden,” he tells the baby, carefully folding back a piece of blanket to get a closer look. Uriel’s lips pucker, as if trying to suckle.

More infant dreams.

“I’m nearly certain they’re not too upset about it though, as long as you’re here,” he says, reflecting on those first confused, hectic moments down on the planet.

_No time to really be shocked. Michael was already in labor and Uriel already coming. Lorca was trying his very best to help her but as soon as they were found, both looked as surprised as they were relieved. And when Uriel decided to crown…_

What a moment.

For people often so closed, Gabriel and Michael were both open and vulnerable as they admired their infant after returning to Discovery, and when he’d gently asked the name, it was Lorca who told him, cradling the baby close to his chest. Well, the captain had more breathed it than said it while looking into the hazel eyes of his son, but Culber thought it perfect, and fitting.

Uriel.

The light.

Something, he thinks, that quite possibly saved both of his parents.

The honor of being first to care for Uriel is not lost on the doctor. Lorca trusts very few people, if anyone. And Michael, well…she’s not had much reason to trust people either. So for them to leave their first-born, and likely _only_ , child with him is a minor miracle.

The Captain’s infant son.  Maybe they hadn’t planned this; no, they certainly did not, he knows. But Uriel’s parents have welcomed him with love and happiness and absolute devotion. The baby could not have chosen more perfect parents.

And how perfect they are, the doctor knows. Absolutely perfect, and they created absolute perfection.

The forces that brought Lorca and Burnham together almost certainly knew what they were doing.

In his arms, Uriel begins to mewl, and wriggle—the blankets he’s wrapped in shifting in little, jerky movements.

“Oh? Are you trying to wake up, little one?”

His voice is softer, warmer, and dulcet by intention and meant to convey calm. And sure enough, his patience is rewarded when Uriel wiggles again and yawns, and opens two big hazel eyes that focus right on his.

“Hello, Uri.”

They blink. The baby is quiet, fixated on his face.

“I’m Uncle Hugh.”

Another blink. He gets up and starts pacing slowly through Sickbay, providing Uriel a tour of his surroundings.

“You don’t remember, but we first met before you were a minute old.”

_Wailing and jerking, still covered in fluids, black hair slick against his head and eyes scrunched shut, mouth wide open. Attached to Michael by umbilical cord, but even in those initial moments, absolutely breathtaking. With a hell of a set of lungs. Impressive._

“You were 2.95 kilos,” he says, “48.2 centimeters long.” And a wrinkly little thing, for sure.” Uriel is carried across the room and placed on a scale to record his latest weight.

“Look at you! Another half kilogram!” At the number, Culber smiles, pleased.  “You _have_ been eating! Glad to see someone around here is.”

Because the replicators can only do so much when it comes to food, and imagination goes a long way on a starship. Even one like Discovery. Nothing beats a real steak. The imitation stuff… _No, gracias_.

As soon as he picks Uriel back up, he sees the start of what appears to be hungry face. The baby’s small features start to scrunch up, and he starts huffing—as if he’s trying to decide whether to cry or just grunt in urgency.

“Lunchtime.”

Hugh removes one of Michael's breast milk bags from the container and pours its contents into a waiting bottle. He's quietly impressed with himself as he works quickly, one-handed, heating the milk until it’s warm before shifting Uri in his arms to get into a better feeding position. The baby begins to drink hungrily as the doctor settles back down into the rocking chair in the little nursery area.

The few other personnel that were there moments before have filed out—likely for lunch, leaving just him and Uriel in Sickbay alone.

Around them, the thrumming of medical equipment vibrates around them, and Hugh yawns.

“How about a song?”

Gentle sucking continues as the doctor starts to hum.

 _“Summertime, and the living is easy…”_ the last syllable is deep.

 _“Fish are jumpin’…and the cotton is high…”_ He sings, closing his eyes and rocking slowly, imagining that sort of day. The kind of day that would see him and his husband lounging in a field of high grass, atop a hill, staring up at white, fluffy clouds and clear blue skies. He’d be singing to Paul, Paul grousing but secretly loving it while sipping on some fancy wine he’d bought aboard a space station.

_“Oh-h, your daddy's rich…”_

Ain’t that the truth, he thinks. Wealth these days is measured in power, and Lorca has it in spades. What sort of man challenges the admiralty like that? Hugh wonders. The sheer force of will it had to take—to stand up and claim this baby, to claim Michael—to protect them both, and defy the odds…

_“And your mama’s good lookin’…”_

That she is. No person aboard Discovery in their right mind would deny that. Something about the way she carries herself, tall and proud, defiant and still. Not to mention her physical attributes, her beauty. In hindsight, two strong, positively magnetic personalities—similar in so many ways. How obvious it all was, if anyone had bothered to just take the time to look.

_“One of these mornings, you’re going to rise up singing.  
Then you'll spread your wings….” _

The last part comes out slightly choked; Culber knows Uri’s time with his parents is limited. As soon as he’s weaned, he’ll be leaving the ship—leaving Michael and Gabriel alone. It’s irrational, Hugh knows. Michael’s adoptive parents have agreed to take him, but still, the thought of separating Uriel from his parents… hurts. And he cannot begin to imagine how they feel about it.  

_“….And you'll take to the sky.”_

Because that’s what Uriel was meant to do. Culber knows this baby is special. The circumstances of his birth. The hope in his name. Maybe the admirals will see him, see all three of them—Gabriel, Michael and Uriel—and maybe they’ll grow a few hearts and find it within themselves to grant this little family peace.

Someday.

.


	13. Chapter 13

All they have is the brief ride on the turbolift to get it together, but they do once the doors open and they see Saru.

He stands from the captain’s chair and comes to greet them.

“Captain, Specialist,” he nods at each, “We are pleased to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back, Saru,” Lorca tells him, sincerely.

Burnham gives the Kelpien a gentle touch. “Thank you, Saru,” she says. “Thank you for not giving up on us.”

The crew, all except Lieutenant Tyler, offer greetings. He just stares at them, offering a stiff nod of acknowledgement.

She looks at him as he stands at attention like a statue. And when it is over, sits back down and turns away. Burnham is struck by sadness at his situation. But it is something she cannot help—as she tried to tell him before.

Lorca follows the direction his wife is looking, toward Tyler. And he looks at her. Their eyes meet. Time has bonded them and he sees in her face, what she’s thinking. The sadness there. Something to talk about later, he knows. Now is not the time.

Saru is moved at the rare moment of sentiment from the two.

“You are most kind, Specialist Burnham. Captain,” he says, turning to Lorca and handing him a PADD. “Your reports.”

“I need you to assemble the senior staff,” Lorca says, “in the conference room. There is something Burnham and I wish to discuss.”

The first officer nods, suspecting he already knows what it is.

Tyler hears it all.

He has read the reports, too.

And he remains deeply, deeply unhappy.

.

.

The officers sit anxiously, waiting to see what the meeting is about.

After a while, the doors to the conference room open and the captain enters, Specialist Burnham with him. The officers exchange knowing looks but wisely, say nothing. Instead they wait for Lorca to speak.

“By now I assume you’ve all read the Admirals’ Findings,” he says, forgoing introduction. “For the next four months or so, our son will be onboard Discovery. His name is Uriel and yes, to forestall any gossip—he is our child,” he tells them, looking to Michael, allowing her to speak.

But she speaks with her eyes, looking around the table at each officer. Their faces are kind.

“Be assured of our discretion, Captain, Specialist,” Saru says. He, too, looks around the table, and each officer gives him a nod.

.

.

The first week is difficult for them. But eventually it gets easier.

“Permission to leave the bridge, Captain,” she says.

“Permission granted,” he tells her.

The crew smiles, understanding and knowing why Burnham comes and goes. While none of them have seen Uriel yet, there are stories, as more and more sightings of the baby begin to take place.

Eventually, crew members begin to request permission to leave their posts with reports of “sickness.”

Saru is going through the files one day, and picks up on the increase in “reports to Sickbay.”

 _Strange,_ he thinks, making note of it. Neither Dr. Culber nor the CMO have reported a significant uptick in illness among the staff.

.

.

What started as a trickle has now become a flood. In Sickbay, a steady flow of crewmen come and go throughout the day, complaining of everything from indiscernible ‘fevers’ to generic ‘queasiness’. Yet they ultimately all seem to end up in the same place—trying their hardest to peek into the small nursery set up in the back of the space.

By the latter part of the week, Uriel is drawing a strong and steady crowd of people, desiring to “see the baby.” And by Thursday, the Chief Medical Officer has had enough and storms out of his office.

“OUT!” he yells, startling the 30-odd people milling about his sickbay. “If you are not dead or dying—Get OUT. This is NOT a tourist attraction!” he tells them all, shooing them away.

They go, sheepishly.

But his frustrated yell has woken and startled Uriel, who begins to cry.

“Oh, goddammit,” he mutters, walking over to the nursery just as a nurse scoops up the baby.

“Give him here,” he demands. The nurse does, and the CMO takes Uri into his arms.

The shrieking stops, with little hiccups. A round, tear-streaked face and big eyes blink at him.

“Oh don’t give me that,” he says to the baby. “I’m not your mama or your daddy. It doesn’t work on me.”

Uri’s lip trembles, and despite himself, the CMO tickles him. Uri squirms and makes mewling noises, kicking his feet. The old man chuckles. “Come on troublemaker,” he tells Uri. “Let’s go hide out a while.”

.

.

“Captain, when you have a moment...?”

Saru stands in the door of the conference room, where Lorca has been the past few days, reading over reports (both internal and from Starfleet). The CMO has cleared him for duty and while the admirals are not pleased, they have also grudgingly allowed him to resume command. He credits “friends in high places” for it.

Lorca beckons to one of the six open chairs. Saru steps into the room, chooses a seat partway down the table, and sits.

“Shoot, Commander.”

“Sir,” the Kelpien begins, hesitantly. “There is a … situation I believe you should be aware of.”

“Oh? And that would be?”

Lorca is frowning, staring down at his PAAD. He marks a few places in the report to come back to later.

“There is talk amongst the crew. Your return is most welcome but I fear your absence from the bridge, coupled with that of Specialist Burnham’s, has become the subject of … speculation.”

“What sort of speculation?”

Lorca still does not look up. This does not come as any sort of surprise to him. It is something he and Michael have discussed and they both know that eventually, they will have to reveal their baby. But that should take place in its own time. He is perfectly content to allow the crew to speculate all they want. Uriel will be shown and more personal introductions made when it’s appropriate, and the circumstances of his conception … well … Gabriel and Michael are both perfectly content to leave others guessing.

“There is talk of Specialist Burnham, sir. And you, and … the baby.”

Saru is attempting to speak euphemistically, but failing spectacularly, and after deriving amusement from observing his struggle, Lorca finally cuts him a break.

“Saru. It’s fine. That report certainly didn’t do us any favors. Hell, if it weren’t me and I was reading it, I’d be speculating too.”

“But sir …”

“No ‘buts’. Uriel is here. Burnham is here. I’m here. None of us are going anywhere anytime soon. And if you haven’t figured it out already, humans like to talk. And something we’re all fascinated with is sex. It’s pretty much how we all got here—” he stops himself. “… Uriel being the exception. And as far as that goes, and as far as I’m concerned, what’s done is done. Doesn’t really matter, the how or why of it. So relax. They’ll lose interest eventually,” Lorca says, giving him a slight smirk.

Saru is silent, momentarily speechless. The captain’s reaction is not quite what he expected. But then again … what did he expect Lorca to say? The man has never acted in a predictable fashion. But he is far less upset than Saru believed he would be. In fact … if he were to ascribe an emotion to Lorca at the moment, he would say the Captain seems to be quite … satisfied, with himself.

“Very well sir. I believed you should know.”

“And I thank you for it, Commander.”

Saru turns to leave but Lorca calls him back.

“And Saru?”

He turns. “Yes, sir?”

“Damn fine job you did. Glad to see the crew and the Discovery still running in top shape. Don’t let the brass tell you anything different.”

Saru feels a swell of pride, and tries, but fails, to stop himself from standing a little straighter, chest slightly raised. It is the highest of praise, coming from a man who is not wont to offer it. He inclines his head, acknowledging the compliment.

The captain has changed. Perhaps, for the better?

.

.


	14. Tilly's Adventures In Babysitting

**Chapter 14**

“Welcome back. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, I’ve missed that mind of yours.”

This time, Michael laughs at the admission, knowing what it took Paul Stamets to cop to it. “Just my mind, Lieutenant? I rather thought you liked my glowing personality.”

Tilly and Stamets grin.

“Well, there is that,” he says as Tilly grins again and squeezes her hand. Stamets goes off to check a monitor.

“When do I get to meet Uri?” Tilly asks.

Michael thinks about it. With the exception of Dr. Culber, none of the people she is the closest to have met the baby, though she does know about the situation in Sickbay and the ‘admirers from afar’. Perhaps it is time to “share,” to let more people meet Uriel.

“Soon, I think,” she tells Tilly, walking down the stairs and to a station. “I will speak with Ga—Captain Lorca about it.”

But she already knows he’s going to protest. Her husband has become quite selfish about their son in that way. Protective, to a fault.

No matter. Out of everyone on the ship, she thinks he’ll have the hardest time saying no to Tilly.

.

.

“No.”

Michael rolls her eyes at him and reaches out her arms, but Gabriel is giving her his Imperious Captain look. It’s funny, because he’s lying down on the bed adjusting Uri, who is resting on his chest.

“Really, Gabriel.”

“Yes, really,” he says, eyes affixed to his son, who is attempting to roll, little limbs flailing. He keeps one hand firmly, yet gently affixed to Uri’s back, lest he roll too much.

Michael watches them both, arms crossed.

“Gabriel, eventually he will have to see and interact with other people.”

“There’s been too much interaction, if you ask me,” her husband grumbles. “Did Culber tell you what all’s been going on in Sickbay? If it wasn’t for the admirals’ orders, Uri would be elsewhere.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s a nursery aboard Discovery and you know it’s the safest and best place for him…why are you being so difficult?”

“Because he’s mine!”

“Ours,” she points down to her now-empty belly.  “And I think I have the stronger claim.”

But she’s trying to suppress a smirk as she says it, and Gabriel has the good sense to look slightly chastised. He sits up as Uri begins to make the “hungry” whimper and inches up his chest a bit further, little mouth trying to suck on his uniform.

He chuckles, looking down in amusement as Uri searches for what Lorca doesn’t have.

“Sorry son, I’ve got nothing for you. Your mama has dinner,” he says, as Michael sighs and takes off her jacket, slipping out of her shirt and settling down on the bed beside him.

He snuggles Uri into her arms and watches as the little face turns toward her chest, and the small mouth finds the breast.

She winces a bit and he sees it.

“Still? I thought it would be better by now.”

She gives him side-eye and then turns her attention back to her son, who suckles hungrily.

“Yes, well,” Michael says tartly. “It is not. You try having someone gnawing at your nipples every four hours and let me know when it feels better.”

At that one, he smirks and walks away, to the shower.

When he finishes and comes out, Michael has finished feeding Uriel and is carrying him around their quarters, patting him on his back to get him to burp.

“Here,” he says. “Let me.”

She gives him to his father and heads to the bathroom.

The water is hot, and feels good against her skin, save for her aching breasts, but even that pain begins to ease a bit as she washes away the day.

Michael climbs out and takes a look at herself in the mirror. Her stomach is not as…unsightly, though it is still far from where it was. She knows it may never be the same, but she is grateful there are only a few fairly faint marks on it. Most of the others have appeared on her hips and, to her great chagrin, her backside. Still, her stomach has firmed up, though there is very much a “pooch”, which Uriel enjoys lying on. His pillow, she supposes.

She sighs and dries off, wrapping the towel around herself.

Gabriel looks up as she comes back into the bedroom.

“He’s asleep,” he says quietly, coming up behind his wife and wrapping his arms around her. “…Maybe tonight?” A nuzzle against her neck. “What do you say?” A kiss to her shoulder. His hands slide up under the towel, careful to avoid her breasts. Before, she loved when he caressed them with his hands  and his mouth, but now that there’s often a little person attached, coupled with the discomfort breastfeeding brings, he knows better than to try that.

Still…there are other things he can do...

They’ve not been intimate since right before Uri was born…excluding his failed attempt two weeks prior when it hurt Michael and Uri had interrupted. He thinks he’s been good…relatively speaking. On Eden they had enjoyed one another fairly regularly, and Gabriel Lorca has never been man to tolerate long periods of celibacy…especially involuntary celibacy. The birth of his son had tempered that, but now that Uri’s slightly older and Michael mostly healed … well ….

He thinks it’s a good time to try again.

She leans back into his touch enjoying the feel of his hands on her body. One slips between her legs and she gasps, as he starts to gently finger her.

“Ohhh….”

“Hmm … are you enjoying that?”

A rhetorical question. She arches against him and the towel falls. He knows damn well she’s enjoying it. It’s in the way her ass brushes against him…making blood rush to his cock, rising under the thin fabric of Starfleet issue pajama bottoms.

She reaches one hand to touch the back of his neck, stroking him there, the place she knows he likes, and this is her response. For more.

“Bed,” he breathes against her, bumping her gently.

A soft giggle. A sound no one else will ever get to hear.

Another bump pushes her toward the bed and he turns her and settles her down on the edge, spreading her legs, kneeling down, replacing his finger with his mouth.

She groans with pleasure. His wife.

“Mine,” Lorca breathes against her, as she leans back and lies down, holding herself as her husband brings her to pleasure, slowly, languidly. He’s an expert.

Michael tries not to make too much noise, even as he licks her inner thighs, lower belly, and makes her nerves jump when he returns to her clit. She can feel her orgasm start to build.

He feels himself get harder…

The first twitch of her thighs.

A second….

And he can tell, by her quiet pants and the way she’s pushing at his shoulders that she’s trying so very, very hard…

He blows on it.

She sits up quickly at the sensation against her spot and wraps her arms around him, pulling him up.

Lorca grins, slipping off his pants and coming to join her fully prepared to enjoy every single moment of what’s about to happen…

The first hiccup reaches their ears.

He looks down at his wife, eyes wide, and they both freeze.

The second…

 _Oh no… go to sleep, go to sleep_ ….Gabriel pleads silently, his heart pounding…

A whimper … a mewl ….

He’s going soft … _damn it, damn it … no!_

Uriel.

He’s awake.

And then, the first ear-splitting wail.

Lorca rolls away, exhaling sharply in frustration, and puts on his pants. Uriel’s cry gets even louder, and Michael reaches into the bassinet and takes the baby into her arms, rocking him and trying to shush him. It begins to work but when she hands him to Gabriel, Uri is having absolutely none of it. His son starts to screech—a reproach, he thinks, directly to and for _him—_ and he gives the baby back to his mother.

_Daddy’s too horny, eh? Your daddy may just explode, Uri._

They are up for the rest of the night.

 _I love being a dad but this …_ this _is_ not _something I love._

“Clearly,” Lorca says to Burnham the next morning, as the two of them quickly kiss, completely exhausted and equally bleary-eyed, “We need a babysitter.” Beside them, Uriel sleeps like an angel in his bassinet.

 _Cock-blocked by my own son._ Lorca smiles and shakes his head ruefully.

.

.

The next morning, a weary Michael makes her way to Engineering. Tilly is already at her station and Michael walks over to stand next to her friend, and logs in.

“Would you like to come to our quarters this evening to meet Uriel?” Michael asks.

It is met with an enthusiastic squeal which makes the others look up, followed by a hug so tight, Michael thinks for a moment she might pass out. “Ouch,” she murmurs, and Tilly lets go with a quick, “Sorry!” But her enthusiasm cannot be contained and she jumps up and down in delight.

“Omigod, yes! And I have presents too! What time do you want me to be there?”

.

.

She’s still bouncing when she walks into the mess and sees Ash sitting at a table by himself.

“Ash! Ash!” Tilly comes up, grinning. “Guess where I’m going tonight. To meet Uriel! Michael invited me to her and the captain’s quarters, and…”

At the look on his face, she stops abruptly, and takes a seat, the enthusiasm tempered by the glower that has come across his handsome features.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to….” Sylvia says, quieter now. Other crew members have overheard her in her excitement and there are a few eyes glancing their way.

“It’s fine Tilly, really,” Tyler tells her, giving a half-smile. But it doesn’t reach the rest of his face and she gets it’s for her benefit more than his.

“No, it’s not fine. Here I am all blibbety-blah about — about the baby and it’s the last thing you probably want to hear. Have you…spoken to Michael, yet?”

He shakes his head. “You mean aside from once, in the hall? No. No time.”

No time, because he’s ignored her glances his way, ignored it when she and the captain appear on the bridge together each morning, and he also ignores it when she leaves mid-shift. All because he knows where she’s going, where she’s been. Going to a baby not his. Been with a man not him, and that damn report—he gets it. Abducted, whatever. Forced to survive, blah, blah blah….but the fact is he already knows more than anyone else.

Maybe Michael didn’t know—but Captain Lorca did. He made his interest in Michael abundantly clear early on when Ash first came aboard, and Tyler isn’t stupid—he’s definitely not a believer in immaculate conception and while he gets that technically there wasn’t enough time for them to make a baby, she’s living in Lorca’s quarters, they’re together constantly and if it didn’t happen down there, what about up here and….

His mind keeps going to the dark place. Yes, he’s heard the talk from the people who have caught glimpses of the captain and specialist carrying their baby down the hall. He’s heard the exclamations of “how cute” and “oh, my goodness!” and vague references to “precious,” and “so dear…” But the one that grates on every last nerve he has is, “isn’t it romantic?”

Romance his fucking left ball. It’s not fucking romantic. And what just kills him is that no one has ever bothered to put the pieces together.

How Michael’s prison shuttle was _mysteriously_ re-routed to Discovery. How quickly Lorca took her into his confidence. How fast she was given the title “Specialist” but treated like a … senior Lieutenant, even de facto Second Officer in an advisory capacity. Given access to any and everything. The risks they took as a ship to rescue Ambassador Sarek—for _her_. For no other purpose.

And then, right before the shuttle’s departure, Lorca coming up to Ash, putting a hand on his shoulder and appearing benevolent, even as he leveled the threat: “Bring her back in once piece, or don’t come back at all.” Tyler thought he was talking about the shuttle, but Lorca shook his head and glanced back at Michael, crouched as she double-checked supplies in her pack on the deck.

“… I was talking about _her_.”

Even now he still hears the whispered tales of Lorca’s bedfellows before Michael. Lieutenant Ava Duresny, transferred from the bridge down to Operations. Commander Ellen Landry—before she died. There where whispers about Michael too—but he hadn’t believed them when he met her. And those whispers had stopped when she and Ash began….

…Doing whatever they’d been doing. Not dating. Michael was too uptight about that. But…he was trying. And he thought they were trying. Until the night she and Lorca disappeared.

Together.

They were only missing a few weeks.

He’s freaked every single day, sleepless every fucking night, worrying for her safety. And when they find her she’s giving birth to another man’s baby and he’s supposed to throw confetti and celebrate this alleged “miracle baby” in the name of “science”? Fuck that!

He’s not happy. Nowhere near it. And doesn’t he have a right to be mad as hell? What man in his right mind wouldn’t be?

This is why he hasn’t spoken to Michael. Hasn’t spoken to Lorca either. He doesn’t believe “the better man won.” And he’s tired of the _pity glances_ cast in his direction, and the way conversations stop when he walks through the door. He got screwed, plain and simple. All because he fucked around and fell in love with Michael Burnham. And he hates himself because he knows he still is…and he’s deeply and profoundly jealous as well.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Tyler glances up to see Sylvia looking at him, worry in her face.

“What is there to even say?” He sits back and throws his napkin on the table, before getting up.

“Enjoy your evening, Tilly. You can tell them I said ‘hi,’ if you want.”

He leaves the cadet at the table. He doesn’t see her looking after him, worry in her eyes.

.

.

She packs up the assorted gifts in a bag.

A teething ring from Lieutenant Washington. A rattle from ensign Tereska. There’s a onesie with a baby tardigrade on it from Lieutenant Stamets and Doctor Culber, along with her own things: a knitted blanket for Uriel along with a matching hat and little booties to keep his feet warm. Satisfied, Tilly starts to make her way out of the room, but stops.

On Michael’s bed sits her friends’ copy of “Alice in Wonderland.”

She remembers how excited she was when she first saw that Michael had an actual, real book. Those are relics nowadays. Perhaps, her friend would like to have it once more. So, Tilly picks it up and slips it into the bag as well, before making her way to the captain’s quarters. The captain’s and specialist’s quarters. The family quarters, heh.

All of the bridge officer quarters are located on the observation deck and since there are far fewer of them than the rest of the crew, the halls are empty when she arrives at room 2-1-1-2.

For some reason, Tilly doesn’t really know why, she’s nervous. Still, she presses the call chime.

After a moment, the doors open and she finds herself staring squarely into the Captain’s chest, his frame filling the doorway.

I didn’t realize he was so … big, she things to herself as she looks up at him. Or maybe that’s just how he appears at the moment.

As she looks at Captain Lorca, though, her second thought is that he looks positively exhausted. His frame is filling the entryway because his hands are on either side of the door frame. He’s leaning on them.

“Captain, sir. Um … I’m here to see Michael and …”

“… the little troublemaker,” he smiles. He steps aside and welcomes her in.

 She stops, gazing around.

“Wow, now I really want to be a captain!”

Because the captain’s quarters are a hell of a lot more luxurious than the twin suite she occupies right now.

It’s way bigger, with a formal living area separated from the bedroom, and there’s a work station and .…

Tilly goes straight to the window and gazes out, admiring. The entire back wall is a viewport and the sight beyond is glorious. They're passing a gas giant planet, storms at its surface, its concentric rings sparkling against the blackness of space.

“Glad you like it, Cadet. It will take you a few years, though.” Lorca says, amused at Tilly’s exuberance. Nothing ever gets her down, which he likes. He hopes she maintains that sort of curiosity and zest for life. The universe would be better for it.

She turns and grins at him. “I’m sure it will, sir. But I’m more inspired than ever.”

“Tilly?” Michael walks into the living room, wearing a long, loose dress, Uriel in her arms. Sylvia goes up to her, peering down as the baby squirms and makes the sounds that babies make.

 His little legs are going and his hands are too. She extends a finger, and five tiny ones wrap around it.

Tilly grins, and to her surprise, Uriel gives her a toothless one in return.

Michael and Gabriel glance at each other and he raises his eyebrows. Michael laughs and Tilly looks up, surprised.

“Hey! You laughed!”

“I do laugh, Tilly,” Michael says drily. “Why are you surprised?”

“Because I’ve never heard you laugh.” She looks at Uriel, eyes wide. “Hey! You’re smiling too!”

And this makes Michael laugh again, quietly.

“I think he likes you. Do you want to hold him?”

“Yes, please!” She says as Uriel is gently shifted into her arms. She takes him and starts walking about the living room, talking to him.

“Hi Uriel, I’m your auntie Tilly, and we’re going to be the best of friends! I can’t wait to show you how to play Parcheesi and we can watch football together, and oh! I have a bunch of stories I can tell you, and… do you like ghost stories? I do…. grrr…lions and tigers and bears, oh my! … That one’s a classic,” she giggles, as Uri gives her a slow blink, seemingly enthralled by her speech to him.

“I’d say she’s a natural,” Gabriel says, leaning down to Michael, brushing her temple with a kiss, as they watch Tilly entertain Uriel.

“I told you. And you were nervous, about Tilly, of all people,” she says. He looks at her, slipping a hand down her back, subtly.

 “Maybe she might want to babysit sometime … soon?” he asks.

It makes her smile and shake her head. Her husband is nothing if not persistent. She’s got to give him that one.

Later, after a feeding, the captain takes Uriel and heads off to the bedroom, giving Tilly and Michael some time alone. While he has no friends, he knows it’s important for his wife, who has only a few.

Together, they go through the bag Tilly brought with her, pulling out each item.

“And this is from Lieutenant Tereska,” she hands the packages to Michael. Each package is unwrapped carefully and laid on the coffee table.

“And these are from me,” Tilly tells her as Michael unwraps the last two.

“Oh, these are beautiful, Tilly,” she says, fingering the soft fabric. “He’ll wear them tomorrow. Thank you, friend.”

“No! Thank you! It’s been forever since I had a baby to play with! All of my cousins’ kids are older and it’s such a bummer. Babies are so nice. They’re wiggly and soft and super cute—and Uriel, wow … he’s such a cutie … that face! That hair! Those eyes! Seriously, how did you two make him come out so pretty! I mean, normally babies can look a bit weird, ya know? With their little bald heads…

Michael opens her mouth to speak but Tilly, misunderstanding the moment, quickly jumps back in, covering her mouth.

“Oh no! I mean, not make him like _that_ …I mean, I know you two weren’t…um…I was just saying—like, it’s obvious the reasons why he’s so pretty because you’re _you_ , obviously and the captain, is well—I mean, he may be _the_ _captain_ , but he’s a real _looker_ , and…

“Thank you, Tilly.” But Michael can’t help herself from chuckling as Tilly tries to express herself fully. It’s endearing.

“You look happy, Michael,” Tilly tells her, calming down a bit.

“Oh Mother HELL!” Lorca exclaims from the back room, his deep voice booming. “Uriel _what_ did you eat?!” An indication of diaper-changing time. It makes both women chuckle.

“I am…content,” she tells Tilly, honestly, smoothing a thread on her dress. Her uniform is still very uncomfortable, even though she has a larger one, and in the downtime, the dress is preferable. It gives her much more room.

“How long will Uriel stay with us?”

“Just another four months,” she says, feeling a sharp pang of sadness. She has tried not to dwell on it, grateful the admirals have allowed this much, but the impending separation will be … she sighs. She has thought about it so much her eyes have stopped tearing up. _Kaiidth,_ as Sarek would say. What is, is.

“What will you do afterward?” Sylvia asks. “Will you stay here, with … Captain Lorca?”

Stay with Captain Lorca … at that one, Michael looks up. “We haven’t discussed it,” she tells her friend. “I suppose when Uriel is gone I will come back to our quarters, but … we’re just working and … trying to, um … co-parent…”

But Tilly, despite knowing how she can come off, is not as naïve as she looks.

“Right … so, co-parenting, yup. You have a _baby_ with him, Michael. You two were down there for what? weeks, more than a year? And there’s only one bed in your room, so ….”

Michael shifts, uncomfortable with the probing. But Tilly continues, seeing it. “You know, it’s totally okay to go for Captain Lorca. No one is really blaming you, I mean, he’s _Captain_ _Lorca—_ that hair, those eyes … those shoulders … I mean, have you _seen_ the Captain?” At Michael’s blinking, she rolls her eyes at herself. “Oh—of course you’ve _seen_ him,” Tilly giggles, “probably a lot more of him than the rest of us, unnnhh, and you’re like, the envy of practically every woman on this ship right now. Total military bae, right? I mean he’s old _—er,_  but that doesn’t mean anything …”

“Tilly,” Michael says, holding up a hand. “Exactly what are you trying to say?”

“Well, what I’m saying is, you’re like, a queen and the captain is the king, and you have this adorable little prince and…have you ever thought that you deserve a happily ever after, too?”

“You forget that I’m still property of Starfleet,” Michael says, drily, leaving no room for further comment on this particular subject. She’s not comfortable speaking about her relationship with Gabriel—a relationship that – they’re both aware – runs afoul of every Starfleet regulation regarding fraternization.  Not that Gabriel cares, but he could be court-martialed for it. And he is really all Uriel has.

Because Starfleet has ensured that Uriel will not have _her_ for very much longer. It could be days off, weeks, months. But the day will come when Gabriel can no longer protect her under the guise of a wartime commission, and she will have to report back to prison. Away from her husband. Away from her son.

For the rest of her life.

Strange how, six months ago, she was resigned to that fate.

But now, she resists, she fights it.

“It’s okay,” Tilly says, patting Michael on the hand and switching subjects. She can tell, in her friend’s face, that she’s not too far off from the truth.  “Have you spoken to Ash?”

“Aside from once in the hall, no, I have not.”

“I think you should,” she says. “He deserves that, at least.”

Michael changes the subject yet again. “The captain and I were wondering if you’d like to babysit, tomorrow?”

.

Observation Deck Two is in shadow, two figures silhouetted against the viewport and the stars. “So I have laryngotracheal stenosis,” Tilly says to the small infant in her arms. “Do you know what that means? Of course you don’t, but I just want to explain that if I doze off with you, I might snore. And I snore loud. Like Kh-chh-chhh-k-k-khh.”

The baby blinks and stares, raising his fine eyebrows and opening his mouth. Could be a yawn, could be amazement. Tilly doesn’t know but she grins.

“What a beautiful baby you are! You have two very good-looking parents, so of course you’re beautiful.” Perfect round face, tiny nose, and pretty hazel eyes. Skin the color of lightest latte. (Why do I always use food colors to describe skin tones of people of color? she wonders, annoyed with herself. But, lattes are among her very favorite things, and Uriel is fast becoming one.)

“And what tiny hands!” She extends her finger and Uriel’s fingers curl around it. “Nice to meet you! My name is Sylvia, but everybody calls me Tilly, because that’s my last name and we use last names here mostly. So I have a big family and I learned to talk fast to get my words in edgewise. That expression doesn’t make much sense, does it.” Shrug. Baby gaze. Legs wriggling, Uri reaches up a little hand and tugs on a curl of Tilly’s red hair.

“Mmm, ow!” She disengages the curl and gives him her pinky to hold. “You seem like a perfect listener, Uriel. You’re named for an angel, and I can’t think of anything more perfect for you than that.” She strokes his cheek, ever so gently, with the pad of her finger. “Oh my gosh you are so-o soft. I wish my skin was like yours. I still break out. Get zits. Ugh.” She points. “See?” Uriel’s eyes follow the motion of her finger. “Are you going to give me that wise old Bodhisattva look? I loved that when my baby brothers were born! Oh, my gosh you are so cute. I just want to squeeze you close, but you might not like that. How ‘bout I snuggle you right here?”

She sits in an easy chair and cradles Uriel on her chest. “A nice soft place for you. Perfect for telling you a sleepy story.” Uriel’s tiny arm rises so he can plant a pinky finger in his rosebud mouth, and there’s a bit of drool dampening her shirt, but Tilly doesn’t mind. “This is just like when our cats used to be contented and they’d knead on me and sometimes droplets of saliva would come out of their mouths. You know why they do that? You don’t so I’ll tell you. It’s just like you right now, your mouth is relaxed so that drool escapes. At least you’re not kneading and you don’t have claws. Though mommy will need to see to those tiny fingernails of yours because they grow and get edgy and you might scratch yourself or mommy by mistake, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“So – a story. Hmmm. Once upon a time a handsome king and a beautiful princess who had only met briefly at a dance --a ball, they called it in those days, long long ago – met again, on a ship with many passengers. And this ship was a ship for people to have fun and relax—“ (unlike this one, Tilly thought, well, except for that bitchen’ party we had) “—and dance, and drink, and get acquainted. That means getting to know each other, making conversation, finding out about each other, learning what things you might have in common.”

Uriel’s gaze was now above her shoulder, and Tilly thinks maybe someone is there, but nope.  (Maybe it’s like when the Tilly cats would suddenly look up and gaze at a corner of the room. Maybe Uriel hears mice too, haha.) “I guess babies get to look off into the distance too. It’s okay when you do it, but I hate it when grown people do it because it means I’m talking too much. And I do, I do talk too much, and I hope you don’t mind. I won’t talk to you about theoretical engineering though, ‘kay, because you’re definitely too young to understand that.”

A sudden flick of Uriel’s eyes to hers. They look rather penetrating, and Tilly smiles. “Ohhh, I can’t wait till you lay one of those on Captain Lorca. He’s your daddy. You’re the only guy on this ship he smiles at. And you will look wiser than he does, and that will totally trip him out!”

“Well, back to our story. So one day this ship goes aground and their radio is dead and the king and the princess, being capable sorts, decide they will volunteer to find help. So off they go in a life raft and begin talking and getting acquainted, as ya do, and they find out they both love music and he likes jazz and she likes, umm, classical, because one of her ancestors was a ballerina, so a love of such dance music was passed down through the family.  And the ballet dancer had won the heart of a wonderful prince and so this princess was one of their descendants.  And she was from the land of Desert and he was from the land of Keul, and the two countries had fought a war in the long-distance past, but built a diplomatic relationship, so there was a warming of relations between the two countries, ha-ha, pun, sorry.

“So the king of Keul, who is mourning his wife, who died, is thinking this princess is beautiful and brave and smart, and she’s thinking the same thing about him, except instead of beautiful she thinks _handsome_ , because that’s what we say about men for some reason, that they’re handsome not beautiful. So one day you’ll be a very handsome man, but right now you are a pretty pretty baby boy and I just want to eat you up, you’re so sweet. But don’t worry, we just say that, it’s a silly expression, and we just mean you are so special we wish we could have some of that special beautifulness that babies have, because you are new here and soft and … oh, pewww. I think I know what THAT is.” She slides forward in the chair and gingerly balances Uriel as she uses her strong legs to rise smoothly. (“Big legs,” they used to say at the Academy. Not to mention “Silly Tilly.” _You know, I might be roundish and goofy but damn I’m smart, so screw y’all. Oh I hope I didn’t say that out loud_.) “Okay, where did mommy say the diapers are … hmmm ….”

“Okay, here ya go—“ she lays him gently down, on his back, and gets a fresh diaper ready, and takes off the used one, that is full of, ugghhh, smeary yellow-brown. (That’d be a good name for it, “Yellabrown.” Blugh. It doesn’t smell _really_ terrible. Uriel’s getting breast milk, finest kind for newborns.) Tilly hopes Michael can keep Uriel with her for a year, though it’s only likely to be six months. Dammit, that’s not fair to mother or baby.

“Not fair,” she murmurs. “Uriel deserves better, don’t you? Oh what the hell??” A tiny upward stream from Uriel’s tiny baby peen, and her forearms are wet, and so is her hand that went to prevent the stream from hitting her in the face… “Criminy, Uriel, you couldn’t do it _before_ I got your diaper off? Dude, that’s cold. Haha no, it’s warm, but … nevermind … wipes, wipes, where ...? Okay, whew, we each need at least a couple of these. Sure glad I’m not wearing my uniform.” No, she’s wearing her DISCO t-shirt. [Undampened, thanks be.]

Some wag … Ash? … had suggested they print “VERY” on the back, so it’d be DISCOVERY if someone walked around you from front to back, but VERY DISCO if they  walked from your back to your front. “yep, we got Disco music on the RecDec, little guy, so if you ever want to ‘Do the Hustle’ you can learn.” _(Well maybe not, since he’ll be off the ship in a few months. It’d be so cool if he could stay, but he can’t stay here in a time of war. What’s the rule if we’re captured or something? Transport him and Burnham out? But how? I’ll have to ask!)_

She’s whipped out the dirty diaper and with her hands holding his feet up a bit, so she can get to the butt and busily wipes Uriel’s bottom, glooping off the worst of the poop into the middle of the first wipe, tossing that aside [carefully] and grabbing another and getting the side bits. Side swipes with a wipe, yeah, and another fresh wipe for the you-reen “all over your lil’ tummy, guy, my gosh, it’s like that awful fake book title my brothers used to pun around with, ‘The Golden Yellow Stream,’ by I. P. Freely. Or ‘The Story of Poop,’ by Will E. Makitt and S. E. Didd. Maybe I’ll nickname you I.P. and no one will guess why.

“How about you, are you gonna grow up to be a writer? I wonder. You’d have a hella story to tell, sweetie. Way better than ‘The Golden Yellow Stream,’ for sure.” She grabbed another wipe and cleaned urine off her arms and hands. “’Conceived in Eden,’ wow, how many of us could lay claim to that? Not me, that’s for sure. My mom had a really bad time with me, the birth was difficult and then she had post-partum depression and they finally figured that out. She was sick for a long time – I think part of it was, she just hated being a mom – finally got better, and pickier than ever. But in the meantime my dad had a tough time with me and all my brothers. They were some hellions, let me tell ya.

“One time my brother John pushed Mark out of a tree, yes, out. of. a. tree. John still claims it was an accident. And Mark broke his arm. Thank goodness I was old enough to use a comm to call emergency services. Boy did he holler. Screamed like a banshee. [That’s an ancient Irish ghostie kinda screeching spirit. Creepy huh?] Poor Mark never got over it, but well, he kind of did, because he got big and strong because he wanted to go to Starfleet Academy, but he didn’t quite make it. My brother Sylvester did, though, he’s a pilot, a good one, but I was the brainiest engineer type in the family! Ha, take that, pesky older brothers, beat ya to it. Can’t say Mark got over _that_.

“Okay, gotta pull up your little feet and raise your butt again so I can get a clean diaper in there, whew.” She fastens it and lifts him easily up to her shoulder. “No more stinkbutt. You’re too cute to have a stinkbutt, man.”

Tilly bags and disposes of the dirty wipes and such in the recycler. “This thing is amazing, man. Breaks everything down into its molecular elements, ready to make new stuff. Yep, even poop gets broken down to its elements, so it’s totally harmless.

“Let’s go look at the stars and I’ll tell you some more. Stars, see? Oh you can’t see out there yet. To you they’re probably just blobs of light. But they’re burning suns, like the one that lights Earth. Home to the original Eden, if you believe in the Bible. But Eve, the ‘source of Original Sin’? Oh please.

“Okay, we’ll sit back in the chair. Ooh, it’s still warm, nice. So the king and the princess … where was I before you and your alimentary system so rudely interrupted?” She beams at him, and Uriel smiles (could be a response, could be gas) a sweet, toothless open-mouthed smile, and wiggles his legs. “Boy I sure would like one of you someday. When I get a dirtside gig, maybe. I like flying around in space though.

“So beautiful, handsome, brave and smart are qualities we definitely want in our friends and …romances… and we need _kind_ , too, because kindness is the lubricant that allows society to exist. (Have you met Saru yet? He’s very kind and smart; brave, not so much. But I’d say Dr Culber is all three, and Lieutenant Stamets is all three too, when he’s not being the Smartest Crankiest Scientist in the Room. He’s kinda fun when he gets off the right kind of spore drive trip. He said once that he sees the interconnectedness of all things. What we used to call the interdependent web of all existence in the youth school I went to.)

“Okay so the king and princess recognize these qualities in each other, and once they’ve told the rescue ship where to find the other ship, they decide they’re going to go off all by themselves and they find a beautiful island, with all the fruits and vegetables you could ever want, and gentle honeybees and pretty flowers and ferns everywhere and lovely fresh water, and animals to pet and nuts and stuff to eat for protein, and basically it’s a perfect place, warm, but not too, and they build a little house from the wood of the trees and make a roof from the leaves, woven in with slender branches from the trees, and it’s enough to shelter them for when it rains and cools off in the nighttime.”

Her voice silents itself. She’s told Uriel a sweet fantasy of his conception.

“I hope nobody heard that. Except you, of course.”

With her feet stroking strongly against the floor as she cradles Uriel, she gradually moves the chair around to face out the viewport.

“Mmmm, this is nice,” she murmurs, and looking down, she realizes he’s asleep.  Tiny lashes curving against impossibly soft cheeks, a wee bubble of saliva from the corner of his mouth, Uriel slumbers.

And so, soon after, does Tilly.


	15. Lorca's Dilemma

**Chapter 15**

The dimmed lights of the captain’s ready room are still preferable to the harsh brightness of the bridge and it’s here Gabriel Lorca retreats when he feels the headache begin. It has been a while since he had one. But the past few weeks back on the bridge have brought his bad eyes back to the forefront. Perhaps, he should see if there’s anything available that can help –though, he already knows that “helping” means replacing.

It had stumped physicians—the light sensitivity—and he’d lied about it just as smoothly as he’s lied about everything else. Funny, how it all has a way of catching up. The eyes are just a reminder of the man he used to be. Not the one he is now. Perhaps he will let them alone. A caution to not go backward.

There’s too much at stake now.

His wife. His son.

He’s trying to keep lying to a minimum nowadays. He really doesn’t want to lie anymore. Not to Michael. Or Uriel.

 “Captain, there’s an incoming transmission.”

He wipes his mouth and does away with the Ularian squid he’s been eating—a holdover from the past, yes, and something he knows Michael wouldn’t exactly be okay with. A private delight. He likes it raw.

At that one, he cannot help it, a tiny curl of the lips at the reference, something he knows Michael definitely wouldn’t be okay with…well…a line to try on her later, anyway.

“Patch it through,” he says. Then, after a beat. “Lorca here.”

“Captain Lorca,” the face of Admiral Terral appears as a hologram. Gabriel squares his shoulders and falls into a relaxed resting position.

“Admiral.”

The two of them have had more than enough clashes with one another to know neither deals in formalities or niceties and Terral gets to the point quickly.

“There’s been a Klingon attack on a colony in the Iridani sector,” Terral says. “All the other ships are at least a day’s journey away.”

“Understood. Lorca out,” he says, before Terral talks anymore. He steps out of the ready room into the main bridge.

“Lieutenant Detmer,” he says, “Black Alert.”

“Aye sir.”

The alert is sounded.

Down in sickbay, Michael looks up as the lights go dark, and around them, droplets of mycelium fall like raindrops as the drive powers up. In her arms, Uriel, startled from the sudden change, and sensing the tension in his mother, begins to cry.

.

.

The crew is scrambling. And there is no time. The previously empty sickbay begins to fill with medical staff, taking their stations. And she has to take hers too. Uriel is in tears, and it guts her, knowing she cannot be with him at the moment—she is needed elsewhere.

“Specialist, give him here,” the CMO says, extending his arms to take the wailing infant. Reluctantly, Michael hands him over. “He’ll be fine,” the chief says. “He’s safe and protected here. Sickbay has its own force fields and escape pods. There’s no place better for him on this ship.”

Michael swallows and just nods, trying to override her instinct to stay with the need to leave. The good of the many, she tells herself, fighting back the urge to turn around and go to her baby.

His plaintive sobs follow her out of the area and into the halls, and she still hears his cry as she makes her way out.

“Specialist Burnham to engineering,” she hears the commanding voice of her husband across the comm as she moves quickly to her destination and once arriving, quickly hits the comm button.

“Burnham here, sir.”

“Are we ready to jump?” He asks.

Stamets in the chamber nods. “Aye, sir. At your command.”

“Go.”

They do.

Discovery groans around them, and everyone braces themselves at their station as the saucers begin to rotate. In a blink, the ship is gone. In sickbay, a hapless CMO tries to comfort a now-wailing infant.

.

.

They are plunged immediately into a firefight.

“Red Alert!” Lorca shouts. “Detmer, evasive action!” Discovery’s taking fire from three attacking Klingon cruisers. Two flanking, one ahead and below their horizontal plane. They stay with her.

 “Shields at 86 percent,” Saru says as another blast shakes the ship.

 “Owosekun, Rhys: Attack pattern Delta 8 – 4! Fire at will,” the captain commands and Discovery sets her sights on the flanking cruisers.

 Lorca strides up to the viewport, checking on that Klingon ship repositioning itself out front. “Tyler: Zero minus eight degrees, fire!”

 The Klingon volleys come hard and fast. Tyler hits the ship ahead of them but it keeps firing. But the Klingon ship on the port side explodes. 

 But the explosion’s too close; debris is impacting Discovery’s shields, and alarms go off. 

 “Damage report, decks four, five, and six,” Saru reports. “Shields at 60 percent.”

_Deck five_ _._ _Lorca’s gut twists._

 “Hard to starboard,” Lorca barks as they go, his heart rate speeding up. “Fire!” Tyler is training the phaser cannons on the Klingon which was at 12 o’clock, and is now at 10 o’clock, making its way ahead.

 Owosekun hits the other flanking cruiser repeatedly. It falters but keeps firing.

 “Starboard shields at 32 percent,” Saru reports.

 Lieutenant Tyler fires the forward cannons and one of the Klingon ships blows up in the front viewer, causing the captain to glance away at the flash of light. It pierces his eyes, driving a nail of pain into his head.

 Owosekun’s target ship is now getting below Discovery, ready to fire on her inner ring.

  _Near Sickbay. Uriel._ He feels his stomach drop again.

 A blast near the area makes Discovery shudder.  “Inertial dampeners compromised,” Saru says. “All hands, pre—”

 Lorca is too close to the viewport. The dampeners help absorb shocks. With them, offline…

 An aftershock from the blast makes the entire ship lurch and he loses his footing for a second and whacks his head before he can put a hand out.   _Sonofabitch_ …

 He turns, looks at Detmer, one hand on his head. “Helm, zero degrees mark 270! Take her vertical on my mark!”

 She looks at him for a brief second as he half slides, strides, to his chair, drops and holds on, punches a button for ship-wide comms. “All hands! Brace yourselves and hold tight, inertial dampeners are offline! GO, Detmer!” The Klingon ship, now far below, is firing upward, missing its initial target.

 But there are explosions everywhere. The Klingon has hit a critical power coupling. Owosekun fires again, and the Klingon ship spins off, venting atmosphere.

Tyler:  “Aft shield has collapsed!”

Saru: “Life support failing, deck 12 section H.”

“Fires on decks 12, 15, and 16!” Tyler says, having got back to his station, hand over hand. “We’ve got reports of critical injuries…”

 “Helm, level her out until our dampeners are back online.” Lorca gets to his feet as Detmer slowly brings the ship back down. “Commander Saru, you have the conn. Our priority right now is damage control,” he says, and exchanges a nod with the first officer. “Assign repair crews. And take us into orbit and contact the governor. Get their status and report to me. I’ll be in Sickbay.”

 The Klingons are destroyed, the colony is saved. That’s all he needs to know before quickly leaving the bridge, focused on getting to one place immediately—Sickbay.

.

.

 A wounded young officer stumbles down the passageway to the lift, as the acrid smell of burning wire begins to seep through the air vents.  She’s having trouble balancing. The skin of her eyebrow is split deeply in a long gash, blood streaming into her left eye, and coming from her ear. “You took a hell of a whack,” he says, taking her arm, supporting her slight weight. “I can tell you, that feels a lot worse than it is. What’s your name, Lieutenant?”

“Chatterjee, sir.” She’s tilting her head, hand over her eye.

“They’ll fix you up and you’ll feel better soon.” He’s trying to distract her from the pain.

Flickering lights of the ship cast shadows across the halls as they walk, and he sees the full extent of damage his decision has rendered. A battered crew. Officers, some themselves injured, helping others, many covered in blood. Two specialists carry a moaning tech with a compound leg fracture.

 “Make way,” Lorca orders, and people step aside for the specialists. “If you’re broken or bleeding badly hop in. Otherwise wait with me or get to Turbolift B.” Some move off, some wait, and some badly hurt cram themselves against the walls of the lift, leaning on each other. The doors close, another lift comes along.

 At Sickbay the lift is met by medics. One escorts Chatterjee off, the other looks at the captain—who’s swiping blood away from his eyebrow—and moves along. Lorca’s eyes sweep the walls, the floor quickly, searching…

_Michael._

There she is, sitting in a corner, out of the way of all the action, holding Uriel, looking into his face, speaking softly, intermittently kissing his forehead. He threads his way through the bustle, dropping to one knee beside them. “Are you all right?”

Michael nods, numbly, and musters a smile. “Lieutenant Stamets hates it when we shake up the fungal forest. We all got a little banged up. His arm ports—”

Gabriel gives her a level stare. “ _You_. How are _you_.” It is tight. Urgent. He scans her quickly, checking for signs of injuries, and does the same with Uriel.

“ _We_ … are … fine,” she whispers.  She strokes Uriel’s head, and her eyes meet Gabriel’s. “Your face is bloody.”

“I’m fine.” A sigh of relief, the tension in his gut lessening. “We’re all fine.” He smiles a little and lays his hand on the side of her face then caresses Uriel’s forehead. He tucks her head into his chest and wraps his arms around her and Uriel, but breaks the hug after a long second before standing abruptly and helping Michael up, walking her out the Sickbay door. “Go. I’ll be along in a bit.”

She pauses and looks at him, but he nods, all captain for the moment. She says to Uriel, “Time for bed,” she’s off with him down the passageway.

He watches them go.

 “Bridge to Captain Lorca.” It’s Saru’s voice. Lorca punches the comm. “Lorca.”

“We’re in touch with the governor, sir. She’d like to speak with you.”

“Patch her through.” He sighs. _Needs must_. “Lorca.”

“Captain Lorca,” comes a deep female voice. “Governor Ru’a. Thank you for your timely arrival. We will need medical aid rescue teams, and construction help, but you saved us many fatalities. We are coping; rescue operations have started and our medical teams are doing triage right now. We will need help as soon as you can manage, though.”

“I’ll pass your thanks to my crew, Governor. There was some pretty bad damage to our ship, and we had a number of severe injuries. We’ll send medical and construction teams as soon as we can spare them. But we can send a couple of rescue teams now. Commander Saru will arrange for the help you require.”

“Like your crew, he appears most capable. Thank you again, Captain.”

“We come to serve,” he says, and patches the governor back to Saru.

He turns from the comm and sees people limping, still being carried into Sickbay. There are smells of electrical burns and blood of various types, iron and copper.... He helps another crewmember, taking hir in.

He stops by those beds the doctors have just left.

 _Before,_ he would have left them and gone with his wife and child. Of course he would’ve had neither wife nor child. He would, however, have paused to rally the troops. Speak, tell them they fought well. Grip a shoulder in solidarity here and there.

But now he is captain of Discovery. No longer _there_.

The people on USS Discovery are even more dedicated than those on ISS Buran. These people are scientists, devoted to a mission of exploration, not exploitation. Following him – a starship captain – through battle. Obeying his orders with complete faith. Not soldiers, officers. Mindful of the public good, not lusting with a hunger to conquer. These people thirst to research, to learn. They help people, Federation and non-Federation alike, and fight injustice; they believe in a rule of law, not simply survival of the strongest. They are people who believe in helping the helpless, as Michael does.

He walks from bio-bed to bio-bed, talking softly, commending, commiserating, encouraging, joking where there is wry humor in someone’s expression, laying on a hand or shaking hands where it’s  appropriate. Humans thrive on touch.

He speaks briefly with Doctor Culber.

“How’s the tech with the compound fracture?”

“We’ve started surgery. After we knit the bones and ensure his muscles are ready for plasing, he should be better in a day or so.”

“Any other severe injuries?”

“No fatalities, sir. Ensign Rotham is in a touch and go situation, but I think she’ll pull through.”

“She’s the one from Engineering who’s in surgery?”

Culber nodded. “She had a dangerous head injury, but we’ve got the brain bleeds under control and Dr. Pollard should finish the surgery in an hour.”

“When she wakes up, tell her I’ll be back to see her.”

“Yes sir.” Culber has a good smile, reassuring and warm. Lorca nods to him and leaves. He sees Chatterjee on her way out and nods to her; she smiles, mouthing a “thank you, sir” and moves off to return to her station.

.

.

He saw many atrocities in his other life, dealt more than a few, yet is weighed down suddenly by the changes in himself. How he regretted nothing, then, and now regrets nearly everything in his old life. He stumbles a little, blinks blurriness from his eyes, straightens and strides to his quarters, where his family waits.

The doors to his quarters open for him and he immediately begins to remove his uniform, the fabric suddenly too tight—to restrictive, making him feel as if he’s suffocating. Lorca sees her, but cannot bear to look into her eyes right now, fearing she will see everything he was, because who he is now is so new, and fragile in the face of what he almost lost.

The temperature of the water is turned as hot as he can stand it, and he enters the shower, letting the hot water beat on his back, feeling he should be soothed, but still isn’t. It still rears up in his mind, all the suffering he caused, _then_ and now; injuries he caused Discovery’s crew when he selfishly protected his son. Selfishness. A trait before, and after. ~~~~

.

.

Michael looks up as he enters; Gabriel doesn’t speak, stripping off his uniform and moving toward the bathroom. The sound of the shower is what she hears next, but the lack of anything else is…disturbing.

Uriel has fallen asleep, having been comforted, and fed.

Michael puts him into his bassinet and takes off her uniform, walking into the bathroom, and quietly, opening the door to the shower and stepping inside.

 There, she sees it. The look of a frightened man. Not even when they were on Eden, even in the worst of it, has she ever seen her captain appear scared. It’s in the way his eyes are closed, shoulders slumped, head down, and it seems all he can do is just keep breathing….

 _He doesn’t fear the things most men, fear_ , Saru had told her, what feels like a long time ago, but she’d never believed it, knowing all people have fears. But her captain…her…husband, has never allowed his to show.

Her touch on his shoulder makes him jump and he looks at her, but his eyes are pained and red and Michael realizes…he’s crying and whatever words she was about to say die in her throat.

“Please,” he chokes out, reaching for her. “I…need…”

Something, anything to fight down what all he’s feeling because it’s all too much…He doesn’t know where it’s all come from, this is a war like any other, there have been worse battles, worse skirmishes, but this…fear…this anxiety—he hates it, can’t focus on anything other than his own pitiful mental state at the moment and his wife is here, and… Never has he second-guessed himself. Never has he been so shaken. Never, has he cared so much…and he’s terrified of the depths of it.

He turns Michael around and presses her against the wall, coming behind her, breathing on her neck. “I…need…”

Something, anything to distract from the swell of feeling that threatens to overwhelm and consume him.

She knows.

“It’s okay,” she tells him. Reaching behind her to touch the back of his thigh, a quiet submission because she understands the need…for reassurance. Security. Safe Harbor.

He enters her roughly, hands on her hips to hold her in place as Michael cries out, from the force of the thrusts, her hands pressed against the wall of the shower to keep herself steady as he goes.

Hard. Fast. Rough.

When he comes, its deep and he lifts her off her toes with the pressure, grunting in her ear….

Her name an exhale from his mouth.

Gently, she’s lowered and when she turns, she sees his face.

There’s no need for words. She pulls him into her arms, and they sink to the floor, holding each other, the water raining down.

.

.

“I nearly lost you two,” he says as they lay in bed, her body tucked into his.

“But you didn’t. You saved us.”

But Lorca shakes his head. “I keep replaying it—over and over…If I hadn’t ordered her belly up…if I wasn’t trying to guard the aft…half he crew is injured because I was trying to protect him…”

Next to them, their son sleeps soundly, the first time he’s done so since he’s been born.

“Gabriel,” Michael turns in his arms to face him, tugging at his arms until he rolls over, on top of her, to look.

“The colony is safe. I am safe. Uriel is safe. No one died.”

“But my decision…”

“Was the right one,” she says, firmly.

And when he parts her legs with his own, his lips on her neck, she strokes the nape of his neck, urging him on. Her head is back, her slender throat exposed, and he kisses her there, and enters her, slowly.

 This time, they are making love. Quietly. Gently. It's almost like they are on Eden again...

 Uriel sleeps through the night as his parents move together, muffling their sighs, their moans against each others' skin, pausing just long enough to roll over, her on top, now.

 In the morning, the baby is still sleeping peacefully as his parents look down on him, Gabriel with one hand resting on Michael's belly.

 "Thank you," he tells her, kissing her shoulder.

 A thank you for all the things she knows he's grateful for. And some she doesn’t.


	16. Wonder of Wonders

**Wonder of Wonders**

At three months old, Uriel remains a happy baby. Now he’s actively laughing and smiling, and when either Burnham or Lorca walks with him down the hall, the crew often stops to chat, and even play a bit with him. He’s a magnet for attention, and despite themselves, his parents both feel a bit of pride at it.

The best times are when someone says his name, and he props his head up to look.

The first time he did it, the captain was taking him to Sickbay.

A female crewmember, Lieutenant Alana, smiled in passing and simply said, “Good morning Captain. Good morning, Uriel.” And Uri popped his head up from his daddy’s chest to turn and look. The jerky movement had startled him, and Lorca’s hand quickly went to the back of the baby’s head—just in case—but that night, when they lay Uri in bed, he showed them something else he could do, propping himself up on his arms and lifting his head without help, turning when either of them spoke his name.

It was delightful. Followed by an even sweeter grin for his father, then, by a not-so-sweet fart.

Michael laughed, and Gabriel did too, having gotten much more accustomed to diaper changing to the point that even Uri’s explosions, and there were many, didn’t faze him.

That was not to say the same for Dr. Culber, however, who called Lorca—then on duty on the bridge— requesting a change of clothes for Uriel. Michael was deep in a project in Engineering and so, he went—back to their quarters and then to Sickbay—where a happily naked Uriel and a not-so-happy-looking Dr. Culber waited for him. Poor Culber! Lorca suppressed a smirk at the large yellow stain on the jacket of the physicians’ white uniform.

“Gotta be quicker, Doctor,” he said, kissing the top of Uri’s head before straightening.

“That’s my boy!” He laughed out loud as he made his way back out. _Little boys—just can’t trust ‘em._

.

Lieutenant Paul Stamets finishes checking over Cadet Tilly’s morning work—of course, it’s perfectly executed—and heads to Sickbay to see how Hugh and Baby Lorca are doing. Hugh mentioned that since Lorca and Burnham are both working right now, he has Uriel with him, and Paul’s been quite curious about this baby. He’s been hearing interesting things … how members of his staff, worrying about something, will meet Burnham in the corridor carrying Uriel, and they’ll catch the baby’s eye, and suddenly feel calmer. Being a scientist, and having been asked to consider fatherhood by his dearest love, he’s going to see for himself.

“Hugh,” Stamets says, coming up to Dr Culber’s side, and sniffing the air. “Ohhh my, what is that on your uniform?”

Culber gives him a rueful grin. “The captain says I didn’t move fast enough.”

“Want me to get another tunic from our quarters?”

“Tell you what, since you haven’t had any Uriel experience to speak of, here’s how you hold him. Here you go. And don’t panic; he just got his diaper changed a few minutes ago.”

“Ye-e-es, I can tell,” Stamets grins at him, cuddling the baby. “I’m not smelling your usual pleasant scent.”

“Thanks, hon.” Culber leans over to peck him on the cheek, and Stamets edges away.

“Eeeeuw,” he says in mock horror. Hugh gently cuffs him on the shoulder and leaves to change.

“Uriel, I hear you are really someone special,” Paul says to the little one. If babies can look earnest, Uri certainly does. He’s frowning a little with those fine eyebrows. _God forbid you develop your dad’s frown. At least Burnham looks like a nice person when she frowns._ _I wonder if you’ll get the cool Vulcan one-eyebrow raise from your mom or the supercilious double-eyebrow raise from your dad._

 _Maybe I should give more thought to this fatherhood thing. Imagine a baby with Hugh’s sweet smile. I could love such a baby. I could teach hir the wonders of fungi, and Hugh could share his love of music. Our love of music._ The overture to Mozart’s _“Die Zauberflote”_ echoes in his mind; it’s the first opera he ever saw; he was still a child, and it was a delight, the birdcatcher, the humor, Pappageno and Pappagena, the impossible quest and the Queen of the Night with her incredible coloratura aria …

Uri’s arms circle, almost as if he’s conducting an orchestra, or an opera rehearsal. In rhythm with the music Stamets is hearing?

Paul’s thoughts pause as his eyes meet Uriel’s.

It’s the same feeling he gets while navigating the mycelial network, of energy traveling anywhere, any _when_. An eternal existence he can only enter temporarily. Uriel smiles beatifically. It’s as if the baby is reading his mind. _Are you part of it? We’re all part of universal energy, but do you have a more direct connection than we do?_

_Yes …._

He almost drops the baby. Either he’s going nuts or Uriel just _answered_ him. The baby is as calm as a mild ocean breeze.

Hugh gets back, fresh as a daisy, and Paul says, “I want to take Uriel to Engineering.” Uri’s arms raise up as if in a “victory!” gesture, his hands circling around.

His husband looks at him consideringly. “Burnham and the captain will need to approve that.”

Stamets hands Uriel to Culber, first bussing the baby on his forehead as he wriggles into Hugh’s arms and nestles into his chest. “This kid … this kid is _amazing_. I mean, I have no words. I want to see him in the forest. Gotta get back to work. I’ll see you later.” A quick kiss on Culber’s cheek and Paul is all but dancing toward the door.

Hugh stares after Paul. _YOU? You have no words? Wonder of wonders!_

.

.

The crew has acclimated to the presence of the baby far better than Michael would have thought. At first, she was hesitant to reveal him, concerned about the potential for distraction and, though she is loath to admit it, the human preoccupation with…gossip. The report on her and the captain’s “situation” has been fodder for a while, but has, to a great extent, died down. If their fellow crew know, they elect not to say and it feels as if Discovery has slipped back into normal operating procedures.

Still, not everything is back to the way it was.

Her relationship with Lieutenant Tyler being one of those things.

Michael is enjoying a rare lunch with Tilly in the mess, when her friend looks up and waves to a person near the door. Burnham looks up too—to see the lieutenant standing there. But instead of coming over, he gives her a hard nod, and turns away, electing to go elsewhere. It is yet another rejection, a matter that has no simple resolution. Tilly is disappointed.

“You haven’t spoken to him yet?”

“There has been neither time nor opportunity.”

When she is not on shift she is with Uriel. And moments away from the bridge or Engineering are spent in Sickbay feeding him. The baby is growing rounder, now, spindly little limbs beginning to fill out, and she is heartened to see the plumpness. Even the CMO commented on Uri’s weight at his last appointment, stating he was becoming rather “stout” to his father’s intense pride. “Nearly six kilos! Slow down on the mama, Uri,” the old doctor had grinned and ticked the fat belly. _Slow down, indeed--_ she has the sore nipples to prove it—that has not gone away though the balm Culber prescribed has certainly helped in breastfeeding. Uri is a hungry little thing, but she has gained so much happiness in watching him grow. He is surrounded with love everywhere—and she cannot take him anywhere without a crewman or woman asking if they can hold, touch or see him.

Michael has noted they only seem to ask when it’s her—they’re still a bit too skittish around the captain to do the same. But she does not mind. It is good for them all. Uriel needs to learn faces and socialize with more than just the medical staff and his stingy father. 

There is a lull in the war—both sides at a stand-still, and it feels as if they are all being granted a respite. And that it can be taken in a moment’s notice, so every person aboard Discovery is doing their best to value this downtime.

Even her husband.

The word makes her tingle, and with it comes the wistfulness she has to be mindful to keep at bay—to focus on today, and not the day that is to come. When her husband and her son are taken from her, per Starfleet’s order.

She refuses to hope for a resolution—her fate is hers alone, her decision at the Binary Stars one that sealed what will become of her. At least there will be visitation—the admirals are not so cruel as to keep her away from her son, and she is grateful to be afforded a few days away from prison a year to visit with him and, hopefully, Lorca as well, but soon, the sweet illusion of perfection will be ripped away and she will face the consequences for an action she believed—and even moreso now, still believes—was the right one.

It is only a matter of time.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Tilly is concerned as Michael stares off, her normally stoic face revealing an anguish Tilly has never seen before. Whatever Michael’s thoughts, it is clear they are troubled and she does not quite know what to do—or how to respond to the naked display of emotion displayed across Michael’s pretty features.

“You know what I do when I’m sad?” Tilly says quickly, drawing Michael’s attention. “I start singing sometimes, but I’m pretty tone deaf so I sound like a squalling bonobo but I will if it’ll make you not look so sad.”

“It’s okay, Tilly, I’m fine.” She offers a tight smile. Tilly is unconvinced, but takes the hint and changes the subject.

“So, you’re off tomorrow. And the captain is off tomorrow…are you going to have some, ‘bow-chicka-wow-wow’ time?”

“Tilly!!”

It makes Michael nearly spit out her drink and the rare outburst draws eyes toward their table, including Ash’s.

Tilly grins, and leans over.

“I mean, come on, Michael…at least just a few details?”

“Absolutely not.” But there might be just a tiny little curve of her lips.

The cadet sees it, and grins. “I can take Uri tomorrow…you know…if you want me to.”

.

.

He’s learning to accept it. He hates it, but he was shortchanged – not by Michael, but by frikkin’ aliens. He’s heard plenty of stories, from the Academy on, about starship crew members taken, experimented on, tortured, and more. Cadets all went through training in survival, and resistance to torture and long imprisonment, “how to stay sane.” There have been missions for which he’s steeled himself. And recently he was imprisoned and tortured by an expert in physical and psychic pain. But he’s survived, his mind mostly intact. Dreams assail him, terrible dreams, and when he wakes the first thing he thinks of, to help him cope, to heal his mind for the day ahead, is Michael Burnham.

Now he’ll have to find a new thing to think of, because he doesn’t want his second thought every day to be of Captain Lorca, with Michael.

He’s growing tired of having that thought. Really, really tired of it.

Fuckin’ aliens. His heart is torn. Not torn as in “undecided,” or “on the fence,” but ripped, rent, shredded. It’s fading a little, now, in the more than three months since Michael and Lorca disappeared and came back. He sighs. He recalls Calvin Dexter, a fellow cadet from Jamaica. If Ash complained about some terrible aspect of Academy training, Calvin would say, “Live with it, man.” Or as MaMa would say, “Insha’Allah’.”

Breakfast, _hmm._ Coffee, _definitely._ He likes it dark and strong, the way Jaddi Javid fixed it, thick, with cardamom, in a copper stovetop pot. Here, there is no copper pot, nor any grounds to tell fortunes with. Too bad he can’t read the grounds like his Ummi, Javid’s daughter, used to. But the replicators at least make decent coffee that you can order according to your taste, unlike the weak-ass crap at the Academy. You had to go off the Academy to find a decent cup; thank the powers that Peet’s Coffee was everywhere in San Francisco.

A bouncy presence to his left, Ash quickly glances to see Cadet Tilly. She seems exuberant today. Her hair is put up per regulation, but she’s set all those titian curls in a high ponytail, and the light reflects off them in gold and red.

“Hi, Ash, I can call you Ash, right?”

Warily, he nods. “Of course.” Coffee is also a real help for his brain in the morning.

“The breakfast burritos are really good today, I just had one. Just came back for more coffee.”

Ash’s mouth curves in a smile. “Are you sure you need any more?”

Tilly giggles and fumbles with her mug.

 _I make her nervous,_ Ash realizes. _Does she have a … thing for me?_

“Here,” Tyler says, taking her cup. “Allow me. Strong, medium, or weakass?”

“Haha, medium, thanks!”

He picks up the recommended breakfast burritos. “Are you leaving, or do you want to sit with me?” he offers.

“Ohmygosh I’d like that,” she says. “Sorry, I know, I’m being silly, that’s what they used to call me at the Academy, Silly Tilly, grrr, it used to make me so mad but it’s kinda true, I get nervous and I—”

“—talk too much?” he finds a table and they sit. “Don’t worry, my cousin Aisha used to do that. It doesn’t bother me. It’s kind of cute. You seem pretty excited today though, even for you.”

“Oh yeah, I know!” One of her legs is bouncing up and down under the table. “Michael asked me if I could babysit after shift at 1900, and I am so excited. I love Uriel! Have you met him yet? He’s so cute!”

“You’re right, this is good,” he says, taking another bite of “be-fast burrito” – so called because you could grab one and report for shift, if you were in a hurry. IF you were not assigned to the bridge. Either Captain Lorca or Commander Saru would drill a hole in you with their eyes and ask if you needed an advanced wake-up call to be there on time, sans food. Tyler made that mistake exactly once.

“His name is Uriel, and he’s adorable. I’ll be in Observation Deck Two, right by the cap—the family’s quarters.”

He smiles, he can’t help it. Tilly is a cheerful, open force of nature. Sometimes Tyler thinks of her as the ship’s heart, but she’s highly intelligent too (the minimum requirement to get along with Lieutenant Stamets). Lorca and Burnham and Stamets are the ship’s mind, Tyler’s the muscle, and Culber and Tilly are the heart, and Saru … sometimes he’s the heart and sometimes he’s the gentle voice. And sometimes, lately, the very authoritative, but somehow still kind, voice.

She’s looking at him, her eyes twinkling with delight, and Ash thinks of the steadying presence of his extended family when he was young. He used to love holding the babies. And he’s caught glimpses of the child, but nothing up close. Being close is just another reminder of loss. And he’s had about all of that he can tolerate. Still, he relents, for Tilly’s sake.

“Okay Tilly, it’s a date. I’ll see you at 1900 hours.”

.

.

Dinner _. Meh._ But coffee, _ahh._ He tries ordering it spiced with cardamom, and it’s a middling approximation of Jaddi’s. He decides he’ll offer Tilly a sip to see if she likes it, so he tops up his cup, and gets her a cup of “medium” that she can enjoy.

Observation Deck Two. Chairs and couches and dim lighting so you can see the stars, and wow, he doesn’t do that often enough.

But it’s noisy. Tilly is snoring like a chainsaw. Tyler chuckles to himself, amused by it—she can fall asleep anywhere.

He comes around to where she is, in a lounge chair facing out toward the viewport. She’s half in, half out of the chair, a tiny baby nestled on her chest, one arm protectively around him, the other lying across her lower abdomen. She looks so soft.

Her butt has nearly slid off the edge of the seat and her shoulders are halfway down the back cushion, her neck in a deep curve. Thus the snoring. It’s a wonder she’s getting any air.

He clears his throat, and that having no effect on waking her, says, “Hi Sylvia, want some coffee?”

She snorts, waking, looking confused, and straightens up, carefully cradling the baby, settling him and reaching out a hand for the proffered cup. “Ohmygod, I am so embarrassed. Sorry you had to see that. Was I snoring?”

“Yes,” Ash grins and shakes his head. “Yes you were.”

“It’s these foam cushions, I’m allergic. No, really.”

“Okay,” he says, dragging over an ottoman with one hand. “So, introduce me to your friend.”

“’Say hello to my leet-tle friend,’” she says in a fakey accent, and laughs. Ash laughs too. A group of instructors at the Academy, fascinated with popular arts of 300 years ago, had sponsored recreational hours of holovids, music, and dancing for the cadets, claiming it was good cultural exposure. Well, it was fun at any rate, a relief from sometimes intensive coursework and practices, and did give them something of an idea of Earth before the Third World War. Yikes.

“’Scarface,’ right?”

“Yeah. Can you believe the excesses back then? It’s a miracle the human race survived.”

The baby makes a little “Ahhh” sound and, reminded of something besides his weighted warmth on her chest, Tilly moves him gently so Tyler can see his little face.

“This is Uriel,” she says.

Tyler scoots closer on his ottoman and puts down his coffee, then changes his mind, holding up the cup. “He’s beautiful! Here, trade ya.”

She holds Uriel up a bit; Tyler supports him in one large hand for a second to give her his cup. “It’s strong,” he warns her. He cups his other hand under Uriel and looks into his sleeping face. So innocent.

“Omigod,” she says, scrunching up her face. “It is really strong. But there’s a neat flavor in there.”

“Cardamom.” He cradles Uriel in the crook of his arm.

“Mmm.” She ventures another sip and shakes her head. “Well, maybe I’ll try some in my medium blend.” She puts down Ash’s cup, raises her own and drinks some. “Whew. How do you sleep with all that caffeine in your system?”

“The replicator does have decaffeinated, y’know.”

“So is this …?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, it won’t keep you awake. Doesn’t look like you’re having much trouble in that department though.”

“Ha, ha.”

He looks into that tiny face, nearly the same complexion as his own. The eyes are folded shut below delicate traces of eyebrows, the mouth perfect, his top lip a Cupid’s bow. He puts the pad of one finger to Uriel’s cheek and feels silk-soft skin. And up, to a soft wave of black hair. _He could almost be ours,_ Ash thinks, _Michael’s and mine._

Maybe. In another life. Another iteration of events. One where she hadn’t been taken from him and placed with Lorca. Or, one where he had been chosen instead of the captain. Ash has read the reports, and while he doesn’t understand the how of it, he does not believe that Uri was a product of immaculate conception. And he’s very much sure it was done the good, old-fashioned way. And if he is wrong—that “immaculate conception” is true, he’s pretty sure carnal knowledge has happened by now. She LIVES with him, for goodness sakes, they share the same quarters, the same space the same…

He shakes off the thought as Uriel opens large hazel-green eyes to stare at him. It’s that intense, peaceable baby gaze, as if Uriel is newly reincarnated from a wise man. “Oh boy, you are something else,” Tyler whispers. Cousin Aisha’s babies came back to his mind, and his own younger siblings. Family seems so far away now. Tears come to the back of his eyes and he swallows.

He can’t help but wish. He can’t help but hope one day. But if not Michael, then who?

Sylvia whispers too. “Isn’t he, though?”

She reaches out one hand, carefully, slowly, to touch Ash’s cheek. He leans in to it, and feels the beginnings of healing.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17—Saru’s Adventures in Babysitting**

It is Saru’s turn for “baby-sitting”. When the Captain brought it up, the first officer was…surprised, at first. But upon reflection he feels quite honored to be chosen for such a sacred task. But one question remains.

“Why me, sir?”

“Because,” Lorca had told him, clasping him on the shoulder. “You never gave up looking for us. And you’re Kelpien. Should anything threaten Uri, you’d be the first to know—and you’re the fastest crew member on this ship. I trust you’ll get him to safety.”

The logic is sound. And the captain isn’t exactly known for sentiment, so for him to acknowledge Saru’s skills…well…flattery can certainly go a long way.

Still, he doesn’t quite understand the term.

“To clarify, sir. You wish for me to…sit on your infant?”

The captain chuckles and shakes his head and Saru marvels for a moment at his commanding officer’s levity. He has privately come to regard Lorca as well…somewhat cold. Distant. Yet Uri has changed Lorca somewhat, though he, like others, would never dare speak that one aloud.

 “No. I know it’s your day off, but Dr. Culber and the CMO are working on a research project, Specialist Burnham is with Stamets down in Engineering, and I’ll be on the bridge. We just need an assist, if you’re willing. Just watch Uri for a few hours while we’re gone. I don’t trust those nurses in Sickbay.”

“Ah.” Saru was relieved. “Of course, Captain. I would be honored.”

However, he has never cared for an infant, and has never watched over a human one, either. There is much information in the database about such ventures, yet it quickly becomes overwhelming, and much of what he is reading is contradictory. Saru is particularly appalled at the conflicting advice over whether and even how long, to allow a human child to cry. Yet the moment he decides to seek assistance from a more direct source, is when he sees a side topic called “your baby’s cry” and makes the mistake of accessing it, only to see a war of words over how to interpret the sounds. Apparently, there are multiple reasons and meanings for tears.

So, Saru, the first officer of the U.S.S. Discovery, calls on Cadet Sylvia Tilly.

“Cadet,” he says, approaching her in the mess. “I am in need of guidance on an important matter.”

She invites him to sit, and when he tells her of his mission, her grin is wide and she wiggles in her chair with excitement.

“You’ve come to the right place, Commander! “ And proceeds to tell him all about babysitting. In excruciating detail. They are still there hours later, when the mess is largely empty.

.

.

Now, here he stands, the next day.  Outside the captain’s quarters, preparing for his first shift in babysitting.

The Captain’s door looks like every other on this deck, and while he has been in this room and stood in this place many times before, for some reason he feels…anxious.

 A hand drifts to the back of his head, to gently lull his threat ganglia back in. It is…irrational…this sudden sense of fear and he shakes it off, before ringing the chime.

There is no answer.

Saru checks the time to be sure. Is he late? Have they found someone else to sit? But no, it is 0745—he is 15 minutes early, in fact. Right on time.

 He weighs it a moment, then rings again.

Still no answer.

Perhaps something has happened to them? Perhaps they have been taken again? The last time this happened…he cannot think about that. Maybe the chime is broken. He tries again.

Yet, after a few moments, there is still no acknowledgement of the call.

He steps aside a moment and taps his badge. “Computer, whereabouts of Captain Lorca and Michael Burnham?”

“Michael Burnham and Gabriel Lorca are in Room 2-1-1-2.”

So, they are in here. But why aren’t they answering?  The chime system is not exactly quiet. They should have heard him. Something must be wrong. Is the child well? Oh no! What if something has gone awry? He will never be allowed to baby sit again!

The commander takes action, quickly entering the override sequence.  The doors open and he steps inside seeing…darkness and silence in the exterior chamber. Or, not silence. His acute hearing picks up…something more…from the bedroom.

A rustling sound draws his attention to the closed door and he goes there, hearing muffled sounds and…a light moan? Michael.  In the years he’s known her, he has never heard this sound. She must be ill or…something worse. He quickly enters the room. The sounds stop immediately but there is a rustling of fabric and…

His eyes adjust quickly to the darkness and sees two figures in the bed under the sheets, but he still cannot understand quite what he is seeing and blinks rapidly, his mind trying to process the input of information before him.

“Captain?” Saru asks, uncertainly.

There are muted whispers. So they ARE here…

“Commander…is there somethin’ I can help you with?” Comes the deep, irritated voice of Gabriel Lorca. The moans have ceased.

At that, the covers on the bed move back slowly and the captain sits up, bare-chested and glaring at him.

But that is not what surprises him. What shocks Saru is when Burnham’s head and bare shoulders come into view as well, peeking out from under the covers next to Lorca. Only then, does Saru realize what he interrupted as both of them look at him from under the sheets. From beside the bed comes a soft whimper.

Uriel is awake.

 _Oh dear_.

“My apologies, sir…I ---when there was no answer I assumed…” A glance back at the open bedroom door. It comes out flustered, and he turns to go.

Lorca holds up a hand. “Not a problem. We appreciate the concern just…give us five minutes, all right?”

Michael is already sliding to the side of the bed, sheathed in a cover, and scoops up the baby as Lorca whips the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around his hips as he climbs out of bed.

Saru disappears, and once the door closes to the room, he leans against the wall, trying and failing to make sense of what he just saw.

Maybe…maybe it was a figment of his imagination because surely…that wasn’t…wasn’t…

Didn’t they say it was the aliens? Of course it was. There was an inquiry…a report…Perhaps these are just lingering effects of what they endured, or some other logical explanation….

The doors open soon after and Lorca steps out, immaculately uniformed and groomed as always.

“Thank you, Commander Saru. Michael’s finishing up feeding Uri, and then he’s all yours.”

The captain strides down the hall, cool as always and looking as if nothing is amiss.

 Cautiously, Saru steps back through the door and into the room. The lights are on now, the bed now made, and Michael is sitting at the desk in the corner in uniform, baby attached to her chest, quietly feeding him.

Saru looks away and settles into the couch to wait.

“Thank you, Commander.”

Her voice is soft. And he looks up at her, surprised.

“For what? May I ask?”

At that, she looks down again at the baby in arms.

“For keeping our secret.”

Ah…

He can only nod, speechless, the realization that his eyes had not been lying to him seeping in.

Here, he is quite likely the only person who knows the truth.

Michael shifts, bringing up her shirt and standing, pacing the room slowly while gently tapping Uri on the back. He lets out a loud belch, and yawns.

After a little more pacing, she shows Saru how to change Uri’s diaper (“and move fast, because otherwise urine will stream up into the air”), and settles the baby back down in the bassinet next to the bed.

“He’ll be asleep for a while,” she says, pulling on her jacket and zipping it up. “When he wakes, it will likely be time for a changing.”

Now, it is just Saru. He stands in the middle of the quarters, looking around, unsure of what to do next.

Silently, he tips over to the bed and looks down into the bassinet at the sleeping face of a very small human child.

“Hmmm…”

He reaches in and picks up the baby, holding him delicately in his arms, surprised at the slightness of weight.

Kelpiens are much sturdier at birth. But then again, he muses, they have to be. Human children require much more care and are far more defenseless in their first years, unlike Kelpien young.

 “Well, Uriel,” Saru muses as he does what he saw Michael do.

“I suspect you weren’t exactly created the manner in which your parents described.”

As he speaks, the baby yawns, small mouth opening in an “o” and he watches in fascination as the face scrunches up a bit. Saru holds his breath—having read about this—and he believes, the child is going to cry. Yet, instead, there is something else. Previously closed eyes open, and meet his.

He exhales, as Uriel reaches up, and he gives the baby one of his fingers to hold.

Immediately, he is beset with waves of calm, emanating from the place where they are in contact. Uriel stares into Saru’s eyes intently, and he exhales, feeling a sense of wonder.

“What are you?” he whispers to the child, enthralled with the moment.

Every waking moment of his life he has felt nothing but fear and worry. He has fought his basic instincts in order to overcome them, and every day, even now, he feels like an imposter, afraid that one day he will be exposed as a coward and a fraud. And yet right now, in the quarters of Captain Lorca and Michael Burnham, holding a child that shouldn’t exist, he feels completely at peace.

Uriel just smiles a sweet, innocent, baby smile.


	18. Destiny

They’re playing.

He leans in and kisses Michael softly on the lips and they both watch as Uriel smiles at them from his perch on the bed.

Gabriel does it again, and looks again—and Uriel grins and kicks his little legs. Gabriel laughs.

“So, you don’t mind, huh?” Going in for another smooch.

This time, the baby lets out an excited squeal and claps his hands. Michael giggles, that sweet, sound she rarely offers, and he knows she’s truly happy. Their fun is short lived, though.

“Captain, incoming transmission from Starfleet Headquarters,” Lieutenant Bryce pages, his voice coming through clearly in Lorca’s quarters as he and Michael play with their son.

It is a sweet moment, interrupted. They had been playing peek-a-boo and kiss-a-boo with Uriel but Lorca stands quickly, the smile fading from his face as he straightens his uniform and punches the intercom on the wall.

“Patch it through.”

“It’s marked Top Secret, sir.”

Michael looks up at that one, and he meets her gaze with a nod.

“Understood. On the way.”

Duty before family.

.

.

He takes the call in his ready room. Most of the crew is asleep and only the third shift is present. The Officer of the Deck greets Lorca as he strides onto the bridge. They appear surprised. It’s no wonder. While before, he could be seen prowling around Discovery at all hours of the day and night, since the birth of Uriel, the captain has taken to more regular hours.

Lorca gives the officer at the conn the briefest of nods and goes into the ready room to take the call.

“Lorca here.”

Admiral Sh’lehn’s face appears, and he relaxes slightly, having prepared himself for the inevitable clash with Admiral Terral, whom he had fully expected to issue the brief.

“Admiral Sh’lehn,” Lorca says, straightening. “I haven’t had the opportunity to…thank you. Allow me to say it now.”

Because he knows that much of the happiness he now enjoys came from allies in certain places, the admiral being one of them. The corners of her lips turn up and her antennae tilt forward in acknowledgement.

“You are most welcome, Captain. And thank you for your service. Discovery has proven indispensable. How is your son?”

“He’s doing well. Getting bigger by the day,” he tells her, feeling a point of personal pride. “He’s learning to identify voices and sounds—we’re hoping maybe he’ll get to ‘daddy’ soon.”

The admiral laughs. “I remember when my first was born. His father was just like you. Territorial. Enjoy it, Captain. They don’t stay small for long.”

The two slip into a moment of reflective quiet. And he is very much enjoying this time, because Gabriel knows he’s probably among the most undeserving of men to be gifted with such treasure. He’s doing his best to earn it now.

“So, Admiral, what’s the urgent message?”

She straightens to a more official posture. “We’ve discovered a potential way to hack the Klingon’s transmissions,” she says. “It’s a planet—Pahvo. Or, more specifically, it’s what’s on that planet that is of the utmost importance.”

“Oh?” Lorca raises both eyebrows and crosses his arms, listening.

“There’s a tower of crystalline formation—we believe it can be used to send out a signal that will allow us to tap into the Klingon communication systems unnoticed. This would be a valuable asset, Captain. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, I do,” he says, knowing where Sh’lehn is going. If they can gain access to the transmissions they would be able to head off attacks, turning the tide of war in the Federation’s favor. Even now, the only thing standing in the way of a worse outcome is Discovery—but if this ship were to fall, Lorca knows the Federation is no match for the Klingon cloaking technology their ships are increasingly being armored with. So this—breaking into their communications systems—is the best option available.

“I need you to assemble a team,” she says.

“Understood.” Lorca knows immediately which crew he’ll have to send down.

.

.

Lorca returns to his quarters, but it is only for a moment.

He settles on the bed next to Michael, who is curled up under the blankets, and gently, he runs his hand over the curves and outline of her body. She stirs and rolls over, looking up at him.

“Yes?”

Despite himself, he gives a tight, closed-lipped smile, one hand resting on her hip and sliding up, rubbing.

“We’re on the way to a planet called Pahvo,” he tells her, speaking in low, dulcet tones so as to not disturb Uriel. They’ve just now reached a point their son is sleeping through most nights and he’s only just now gone down—in the wee hours of morning.

“I need you,” he tells her, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

 A slender hand touches his cheek, and they speak together without words.

“All right,” Michael says, after searching his face. “But … who else?”

“Tyler,” he tells her, waiting for a reaction.

It’s not lost on him that since their return, and the birth of their son, his wife’s relationship with her former lover (though he nearly chokes on the word) is strained. It has not interfered in their work—his primary concern—but now Lorca is thinks it could become a problem should Michael and Ash be sent down to Pahvo together. He needs both of them to use their expertise on this mission: Ash to navigate and provide mission security, Michael, for her technical acumen and Saru, for potential first-contact protocols. As far as they know, the planet has no life, but that isn’t a guarantee. But he just needs some reassurance that there will be no interpersonal conflicts that could potentially harm a critical mission.

“It will be fine,” she says.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Captain,” Michael tells him. Her tone of voice means he’s beginning to press her. Funny how it is, he knows what she’s saying even when she’s not saying it. Like how “fine” doesn’t mean “fine” but more, “I’ll get it done,” and how she can even see right through what he’s saying when he’s not saying it: like when he asks if it’ll be fine, what he really means is something else entirely. While he knows he shouldn’t feel threatened (and he doesn’t), there’s a twinge of guilt in him, knowing that if the situation were different—if he and Michael weren’t taken to Eden, she might be with Tyler. The man she was well on her way to falling in love with, if fate (he’s a believer, even if she isn’t)—and some aliens—had not intervened.

.

.

Due to surface interference, their shuttle sets down 12 kilometers away from their target. At least a two-day walk.

It’s the first mission she has been a part of since Uriel’s birth, and it takes them all—her, Saru and Ash, to get their land-legs back.

The first few steps are slow going as they struggle to find footing. Artificial gravity and real gravity are quite different, and they are like three young colts, attempting to take their first steps. Saru is the first to manage, and after a while, Tyler and Burnham do too, taking in the scenic beauty of the planet—trees and plants in purple and blue hues, casting  a strange, brilliant light of the same colors everywhere, making droplets of what appears to be precipitation glow around them.

“It’s beautiful,” Michael says.

“It is,” Ash says from behind her. But he’s not looking at their surroundings. Ahead, Saru leads the way.

“This planet is…unpleasant,” the Kelpien comments.

“What do you mean, Saru? How is this not incredibly tranquil?” Michael asks.

“To you, maybe. But this planet is emitting a high-frequency vibration which is setting my nerves on edge. It’s best to get done with this as quickly as possible and get back to Discovery.”

Burnham smiles to herself and shakes her head. Saru has never been one for away missions. But she has always relished them: the thrill of the unknown, the potential for new discoveries. Being here—after so long up there—gives her the familiar tingle of anticipation. Of what, she doesn’t know, but these situations are where she thrives.

The tricorder whirs as they go, taking in data—soil samples, plant samples, atmospheric makeup. More to analyze and catalog later—if they ever have time for that again. It pains Burnham to know the Federation teeters at the edge, fighting every day to hold on against an enemy bent on annihilation. Not for the first time does she wish her former Captain, and friend, would have listened. With each skirmish, each battle, lives lost on both sides, it becomes clearer that there was only one way to prevent this catastrophe: the “Vulcan Hello.” Months have passed since she thought of Captain Georgiou.

 _I wonder what you would think of my life, now?_ she muses.

Would her mentor be pleased at the person she is becoming? Georgiou had always encouraged Michael to explore and accept her humanity. It has been a struggle. And while she will not say she is entirely there … the events of the past year have humbled her spirit.

 _Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall,_ Amanda used to caution.

“Vulcans are not proud,” a ten-year-old Michael had told her, as Amanda laughed.

“Oh, child,” she’d said, giving her adopted daughter a hug. “Pride is the worst Vulcan trait of all, and do not let them tell you they don’t have it. Just remember who you are, where you come from, and you won’t get lost.”

She got lost anyway.

In her hand, the tricorder begins to beep a warning and she pauses mid-step, looking at the readings.

“Saru?”

He turns just as Lieutenant Tyler comes up beside her. They frown at the data coming in.

“Does that say …?” Tyler’s voice trails off as around them, what they first mistook for precipitation begins to swirl … and take … form.

Saru looks up in amazement as well.

“Well,” he says crisply. “This changes the nature of our mission.”

They all know it. First contact protocols. They can’t alter anything on the planet without asking the permission of its inhabitants.

.

.

Saru has gone, leaving Michael and Ash alone in a small hut. It is the first time they have been alone together in months. Or, what feels to her, like years.

The silence is…uncomfortable. And she is unsure of whether—or even how—to proceed.

Michael decides to keep the conversation mission-specific. “Perhaps we should go over the plans for tomorrow.” She’s rolling out her sleeping mat, laying out her PADD, tricorder and the equipment they’ll need for the installation—if Saru can convince the native inhabitants to allow them to proceed. It’s critical he does. The Federation needs this.

“Michael,” Ash turns to her. For a moment she stops breathing, refusing to turn around and look at him, while she braces herself for the inevitable. They’ve not spoken since the moment in the corridor, when he saw her coming from her Starfleet debriefing and asked if there was a baby.

The look on his face! It makes her grimace to remember it, how sad and hurt and desperate he appeared, and she wonders if she could have handled it any better than she did. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t her fault. Nor was it the captain’s fault. Intellectually she knows she owes Ash nothing, but why does it feel like she did something … wrong?

Because—maybe—she does owe him something. And herself, too.

Slowly she settles on her mat, exhaling, and turns to face him.

“Yes?”

He just looks at her, words momentarily escaping.

Ash remembers the first time he saw Michael, really saw her—the moment. It wasn’t their introduction in the mess. No.

The moment he first saw Michael was the moment he was pre-flighting the shuttle, about to go into a nebula to rescue Ambassador Sarek. Captain Lorca came up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, as Ash prepared for takeoff. Michael was in the back, kneeling down, rooting through a bag on the floor. Lorca strode right past her, his face carefully neutral, and told Ash to bring her back, intact, and unharmed.

Tyler thought the captain meant the shuttle.

“I was talking about her,” Lorca said, voice dropping so that she couldn’t hear him. But Ash did, loud and clear. He’d heard the talk. The rumors. The captain’s special interest and the strange circumstances that brought Michael Burnham to Discovery. He stared at Michael as she concentrated on what was in front of her, oblivious to the conversation and his gaze. He stared at Michael, wondering what was so special about her as to draw such attention from the captain … what was so significant about a person that it merited a special field commission against a life sentence.

He found out later though, when she sought him out. He was caught off guard, surprised that he would be the one she came to. Ash thought, through talk and gossip, that she would likely seek comfort from Lorca. It seemed … natural, in some way. But she didn’t. She hadn’t. She had found him.

 And as she talked, about family, about insecurity, about … life, he found himself listening intently, and agreeing. That one moment begat another … and another … and … another … until they found themselves working side by side. Eating side by side … dancing … and ….

He looks at Michael now, the tilt of her head, the set of her eyes, the curve of her lips, the delicacy of her features that is so deceptive. She’s among the strongest of them, he knows. As skilled with a knife and a phaser as she is in xenoanthropology—her specialty. Smarter, faster, cunning. She is everything.

Everything Ash ever wanted. And everything he feels he’ll never have.

“Can you at least tell me … what happened?” he asks, settling next to her. “I just want to know if you did … if you ever …” _loved me_.   

Because in the months since they came back, he’s wondered if any of it was real.

“I don’t know,” she tells him, honestly, meeting his eyes.

She has asked herself the same question. Struggled to understand it. She asked Lorca to explain love, and she weighed whether what she felt fit with what he told her. Romantic love. Platonic love. Loving one, or a few.

“I know you want me to say yes,” Michael says. “And I want to be able to tell you, yes.”

Back then she was unsure, having no frame of reference. But now, she knows a mother’s love. And she knows a partner’s love. She thinks she understands platonic love, and familial love, but .…

“I struggle to understand where our love … fits. I feel that we were … interrupted,” she answers truthfully. “But you must understand, Ash, I don’t have the luxury of looking back. Nor can I wonder ‘what if’? My future is … uncertain. And you should know that even if … Eden, never happened, what you wanted from me, I never could have given you. I’m not even supposed to be here, in this place, at this moment. And when the war is over, I won’t be.”

He’s quiet, reflecting. What she says is true. That what he wanted was a _forever_ that—because of circumstances—was, at best, a pipe dream.  Their destinies lie in different places. Hers, a federation prison cell. His … he still doesn’t know.

 Never has he thought it fully through, simply assuming … what? They had never moved beyond tender kisses, but the potential of so much more started seducing him in his dreams. Maybe … maybe he cleaved to the idea of Michael and not the woman herself, because it was so much easier to relish a fantasy than to confront the reality of it.  

He weighs what to ask next.

“Did you … do you … love … him?”

They know Ash isn’t talking about Uriel.

Michael glances away. Not even when Tilly asked did she answer, the answer so complex as to go beyond love.

“He’s the father of my child.”

“He’s your captor.”

“He’s the reason _you’re_ here.”

“So he’s mine, too,” Ash scoffs. “You’re not answering the question.”

“Don’t.” The look is meant to silence him, but he won’t be silenced. Not until she says it, admits what he already knows to be the answer.

“Not until you tell me the truth. Do you love him?” It’s direct. Probing, and she knows it’s impossible to lie, or tell him what he wants to hear. So she answers.

“Yes. And I loved you too.”

But love is past tense.

The meaning’s clear. At least, he has an answer. He has the truth. And while it pains him, when he looks at her, and sees the sadness and grief in her face, he reaches out, to offer comfort. To reassure her, and himself, that while it isn’t okay now, eventually, it will be. Because he knows something Michael doesn’t.

“He loves you too, you know. He has, from the beginning. Before Eden.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he told me, when we went to get your father,” Ash says. “He told me to bring you back in one piece, or not to come back at all. So, I made sure to bring you back.” He gives her a smile, and a gentle hug. It’s not okay now. But maybe one day, it will be.

.

.


	19. Solutions and Surprises

**Pahvans**

The rest of the mission does not go according to plan.

They manage to install the transmitter to the tower, but what goes out is an invitation—the opposite of what their mission was intended to be. And when Michael and Ash return to Discovery, a furious Lorca awaits them.

“Congratulations,” he says sarcastically, arms crossed. “Instead of tapping into their communications we’re extending an invitation to come find us.”

But Ash steps in before Michael can respond. “It wasn’t her fault, sir,” he says. “The Pahvans believe they’re trying to bring peace. They don’t understand the conflict. They don’t understand the nature of war.”

Lorca’s eyes flick between the two and he moves to say something more, but stops, as Lieutenant Bryce turns in his chair.

“Captain, incoming from Starfleet Command.”

The bridge crew tenses, knowing nothing from Command is good.

 Michael leaves the bridge to check on Uriel as Lorca proceeds to his ready room, and Ash takes a seat at his station.

The tension is becoming palpable as the crew braces for the inevitable showdown they all sense coming.

 It will certainly be the last battlefield.

.

.

**Mapping a Solution**

“You _will_ stay,” Lorca tells her with a look at says, “Do _not_ defy me.”

 But she has never been a woman who likes being told what she should and shouldn’t do. Not when the future of them all is at risk. It is their worst argument. And it is happening on the bridge, as she insists that she needs to go to the Klingon Ship of the Dead.  “I am the only one who’s been on that bridge, who knows the layout.”

But her captain is equally insistent she remain.

“Tell someone else. You’re not going.” He walks away toward the chair, assuming his is the final say on the matter. It isn’t.

“There IS no one else. Who else knows that ship better than I do? Who _else_ has been there before?”

Her eyes narrow at Lorca, and he turns and glares at her.

The bridge crew look at each other nervously, no one’s willing to speak up or interfere with this one.

“You are not thinking logically,” Michael says, baiting her husband, goading him. By now, she knows what buttons to push. Which triggers. And she strikes all at once.

“And _you_ are not thinking at all!” he finally yells. And realizing there are eyes, and ears … he orders Michael into the ready room behind closed doors: “Specialist – my ready room, now.”

“You cannot go. It’s too dangerous,” Gabriel insists when they’re alone. He’s got her pinned against the wall, staring at her with a combination of anger and fear. And he cannot decide which he feels more right now: anger at her challenging his orders on his bridge, or fear that the next several hours will determine what will happen to them, and he can’t … he closes his eyes a moment, trying to regain some semblance of control here—he can’t lose Michael. She’s the only thing keeping him … him.

 “I am the most expendable member of this crew,” she says, refusing to give. “Starfleet won’t miss me if I’m gone.”

“But what about Uriel,” he says. “You would leave our son without a mother?”

“I would rather die with as much freedom and dignity as I can muster than live the rest of my life knowing I could have done something and didn’t!” Her plea is impassioned. “It is FOR Uriel that I do this, Gabriel.” They’re past formalities. “I’m your best option, and you _know_ it.”

He does. But he can’t see past the last time. It feels like his good fortune is coming to an end. He can’t lose her again. Just the thought of it almost physically cripples him.

 Michael knows he’s struggling with doing the right thing—putting the crew’s needs above his own—but  it has to happen.

“Let. Me. Go,” she whispers to him, softly.

 When he looks at her, it’s with red eyes, his voice low, and gravelly.

“Very well, Specialist.” It’s curt and he strides past her out of the ready room, briskly says “Saru, you have the conn,” and leaves the bridge.

She comes out a moment afterward, but only after regaining a modicum of her own control. Ash comes over.

“You okay?”

Michael nods. “I’m fine.”

They both ignore her shaking hands. But she will do what must be done. Because she would rather they all die in freedom than live in tyranny—and that is the choice that faces them now. The Klingons are coming. And Discovery is the only thing standing between the ship of the dead and the Federation. She was left an orphan. And while she hopes the same won’t be true for her son, Michael is convinced if she does not go, Uri will have no future. It’s the most selfless thing she can do. Even if, as her eyes go to the closed door, it costs her her husband.

.

.

They have a plan. Stamets will make the jumps. 133 in all to document the Klingon cloak, and come up with a solution to break it. Doctor Culber glares at him, but Lorca can see no alternative.

“Lieutenant?” he asks, looking at Stamets. “It’s up to you.” Yet another change. He won’t order Stamets to do this. Everyone has to make their own decisions. He and Michael have already made theirs. Paul looks to Hugh, and Lorca turns away out of respect.

“I have to,” he tells his husband. “There is no other way.”

Risk. Consequence. Sacrifice. What they signed up for in the beginning.

“We either make it, or we don’t,” the captain says quietly.

“We’ll make it, sir,” Stamets says.

Now, it’s just a matter of time.

.

.

They go over the plan one more time.

“Klingon arrival in less than three minutes,” Lieutenant Rhys says from his position monitoring the trajectory map.

Burnham and Tyler ready their equipment packs.

“You get in there, and get out,” Lorca tells them. “No heroics. Even if you see an open opportunity—don’t take it. You’ve got one job.”

“Yes, sir,” Tyler says, even as the captain is looking at Michael.

“Yes, sir,” she says, adjusting a strap on her backpack.

“Good,” he goes, and they do too, walking off the bridge and to the transporter room. Lorca hits the comm on the arm of his chair.

“Engineering, status?”

Down in the engineering bay, Tilly moves from station to station, doing a final check, and last-minute preparations. Over in the chamber, Doctor Culber finishes buckling the medical monitor cuff on Stamets and placing the nodes on him so he can track his vital signs.

“This is it,” Paul whispers.

Tilly glances up at them, her stomach tensing. The next thing she hears a few moments later is the captain’s deep voice, ship-wide.

“Black Alert!”

In Engineering, Ash and Michael kneel down on the transporter pad and draw their weapons. He glances at her, but she doesn’t glance back—face set. Mission clear.

“Black Alert!” comes Lorca’s voice.

Up on the bridge, Lorca’s heart starts to beat faster.

It’s time.

.

.

They slip quietly through the halls of the Klingon ship, ducking behind walls, keeping low, remaining out of sight. The vests they wear mask their life signs as Klingons and for the moment, their enemy is none the wiser.

The first marker is pulled from a bag and placed inside of what appears to be a storage room. Ash activates it, as Michael programs it. Once set, they slip out again.

But as they go, she begins to pick up life signs…a human one.

“Ash.” Michael stops him. They duck behind a wall as two Klingons walk past. After a moment, they peek out again and she slips over to show him. But he tells her no. “In and out,” he says. “Captain’s orders.”

“But if we have a chance to rescue one of our own…”

“No, Michael. You heard what Lorca said.”

“Yes, but he didn’t leave _you_ behind.” She charges. “And I can’t leave this person, either.”

Ash knows there’s no use in arguing with her. When Michael Burnham is set on something, there is no budging her. All he can do is watch her back as they slip down the hall, following the tricorder readings. Before them, looms a door, and he manages to remove a side panel and tap into the electrical wiring. It opens, and sends him reeling back, from the smell. Putrid, and rotting.

Michael turns her head, gasping as well, before taking a deep breath, and going in.

Bodies.

Klingon bodies, in various stages of decay. He knows enough about their culture to realize this is considered blasphemy to be dishonored in death and strewn about in such a way. Cautiously, they enter, guns drawn.

A movement toward the back catches his attention and he trains his gun on the shadow.

It moves.

And as it steps forward, he freezes in terror, beginning to sweat as smells and pain and images too horrible and realistic fill his mind.

Michael goes quickly to the figure lying prone on the ground, unconscious.

“Admiral Cornwell,” she says, checking the woman’s vitals. “Admiral, wake up. Can you hear me?”

Slowly, the admiral comes to, her breathing and voice faint.

“I can’t…feel my legs,” she grunts, wincing as Michael helps her to a sitting position.

Warily, she opens her eyes, and meets Michael’s, looking shocked. “Michael…Burnham?”

“Yes, sir. We’re going to get you out of here. Ash?”

They both look up to see him, frozen to the spot, gun drawn and pointed, but arms shaking.

“Lieutenant Tyler?” Michael calls out more forcefully, but it doesn’t help. He still won’t move and whatever has …

Her eyes go in the direction he’s pointing and all she sees is a Klingon. It takes all of two seconds to draw her phaser and shoot—the stun taking the Klingon to the ground. She props Cornwell up and goes to get Ash, who is still rooted to the place and gently lowers his arms, guiding him with soft words and bringing him next to the admiral to settle him down as well.

But now, he’s mumbling incoherently, in some sort of daze and she can’t shake him of it.

“PTSD,” Cornwell says, tersely. “I’ve seen it before. Go. I’ve got him.”

Michael knows she must. But a trembling, barely-coherent and quickly deteriorating Ash Tyler gives her pause.

“Go, specialist,” Cornwell says, more firmly now. Burnham gives the admiral Ash’s phaser and seals them back in the room before making her way to place the last of the beacons.

There’s nothing she can do for either of them now, except complete the mission and find a way back to Discovery. She is determined to do both.

.

.

“Captain, they’re back on board.”

All that he needs to hear.

Thanks to the away team, the crew has broken the Klingon cloak.

He is done playing with the Klingons. And while he knows it is un-federation-like to fire on a crippled vessel, he doesn’t give a shit. Revenge holds a particularly special place in Lorca’s heart.

He walks up close to the view screen, and methodically places a drop in each eye. It’s going to hurt like hell. But he doesn’t care.

“Fire.”

The resulting blast sends out a light so bright it feels like a thousand needles straight to the brain. He thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Until the doors to the bridge open, and his wife, bruised and bloodied, but alive, walks through. They meet eyes, and hers dart to Lieutenant Tyler, standing unsteadily behind her.

He follows, and speaks to the young man.

“Lieutenant, you look a little rough. Report to Sickbay,” he says softly, speaking to him directly to avoid drawing attention to Tyler’s state.

There’s no protest as Tyler looks at Lorca with somewhat glassy and unfocused eyes, and leaves.  

Michael nods. Around them the bridge crew, oblivious to the exchanges, clap and cheer for the victory, and for what they believe: that the war will soon draw to an end.

“Specialist, report to the ready room for a mission brief.”

The doors grant them privacy and once alone, he pulls her close, holds her tightly, and kisses her.

And in the moment, she kisses him too, and he could give two shits about how many Starfleet regulations they’re violating, kissing while in uniform. There wouldn’t be a Starfleet had it not been for her.

Michael buries her face in his chest, clinging to him a moment, reassuring herself that her husband is real. That he’s here, she’s here, the ship is here…

“I’ve got you,” he whispers to her, nuzzling her gently. “You’re safe.”

Safe. That word.

Eventually, they separate, and she tells him the other thing.  “We found Admiral Cornwell.”

At that, Lorca’s face goes white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Remember comments inspire and feed the authors :^)


	20. A Different Man

**A Different Man**

Doctor Culber tries to tell him it might not be a good idea, but Lorca brushes the doctor off with his usual brash insistence. “It’ll be fine. The admiral and I are old friends.”

Culber’s expression clearly says _Not to hear her tell it,_ but he quickly resumes his caring and professional demeanor, leading Lorca to Admiral Cornwell’s critical care area.

The isolation room is silent but for a quietly burring oxygen pump. A cannula runs from it to Katrina Cornwell’s nose, gently puffing air into her nostrils.

Her bruised nose, in her bruised face, and ….

Lorca sighs softly, wanting to touch her hair or arm to offer some comfort, but is fearful of any reception he might get if she wakes. So he stands hesitantly near her bed but not in the light, trying to figure out what to do with his hands.

He folds them behind his back in the “at ease” position, his elbows loose, and studies her. A high-speed shuttle will arrive in a few hours to MedEvac the injured admiral to Starbase 88. She will eventually be debriefed about her experience on the Klingon ship, the usual procedure for Starfleet officers who’ve been tortured. But first, they’ll give her comprehensive exams and surgery for imminent dangers.

Right now Doctors Culber and Pollard have done preliminary exams, ensuring it’s safe to give her sedatives, and she’s in a UV Steri-Field. They’ve stabilized her so it’s going to be okay for her to travel. Recovery time will take considerably longer than surgery and recovery can on a working starship.

Lorca hopes to hell her MedEvac shuttle doesn’t get shot at.

Suddenly he sees she is giving him some serious side-eye.

“Kat,” he says in his softest voice. “I …”

She cuts him off; he can barely hear her. “D’ja send me into a trap? … that desperate to keep y’r ship?” Her bloodshot eyes look toward him. She’s drowsy and subdued but surprisingly sharp.

Like the contrition Lorca feels.

So much has changed for him … and for Michael. It’s been over a year for them. A tiny lifetime.

He steps forward into the light. “Admiral …”

“’Kat’ is fine.” She’s looking at the overhead, then closes her eyes.

Lorca realizes she doesn’t want to see his face. He thinks of stepping back into the shadows. For the first time in a long time he stammers. “I – I don’t know what to say here, except that I’m shocked and sorry  that the Klingons ambushed you at Cancri IV. You must know it wasn’t meant for you, but for Ambassador Sarek.”

She coughs suddenly, wheezing. The coughing continues and he realizes it’s pained laughter. “Glad … I saved Sar’k … the trouble. How’s L’Rell … Kling'n defect’r?”

“In the brig.”

“Sh’ packs … a wallop.”

At the chair by the bed, he sits down heavily. “I’m sorry. You’ve been treated very badly.”

“You ‘pologizing?”

“Yes, Kat, I’m sorry—”

“Hear … c’ngrats in order. You … Burnham? … baby?”

This is harder than he expected, but humans aren’t so quick to forgive as one might think. He takes a breath, about to speak, when she mutters, “How’d that happen? … not ev’day … captain ‘n a mutineer …”

Lorca leans forward. Kat’s eyes drift shut, then open, and she’s staring straight at him.

Waiting for him to lie? “I don’t want to lie,” he says stupidly.

“Then shut your mouth, Gabr’l. You lied that night. Not gonna jus’ forget that.”

A misery wells up under his breastbone. He can only imagine her feelings. He’s not going to tell her all his happy news; it’d be a slap in her face. As if being seduced and sent off on a risky mission with a stalwart-sounding, “May fortune favor the bold,” wasn’t already a slap in the face. It was worse.

“Tell me ‘bout the baby.”

“Specialist Burnham and I were abducted. Something to do with a genetic match with the aliens who …”

The wheezing cough again. “A better abduction than mine I guess.”

“We were … tortured, at the beginning.”

“R’memb’r that awful, corny holo we saw once. ‘Strue, huh? 'F’m torture to true love'.”

He nods, not knowing what to expect.

“So th’ whole time I’s on the … Kol’s ship, gettin’ tortured m’self, you ‘n Burn’am were havin’ yr own alien abduct’n ‘n impregnation. Girl, or boy?”

“A boy. Uriel.”

“How angl’c. ’D’ja get true love too?”

“Headquarters convened a Board of Inquiry.”

That wheezy cough. “I guess!”

He hesitates, but wants to clear the air, because he’s afraid she might die before he can convince her that he’s not the bastard he used to be. “Kat, I honestly thought there would be negotiations at Cancri IV—”

“Oh Gabr’l, doncha know liars always say ‘honestly’ or ‘acksh’ly’ when they want y’ to b’lieve ‘em?”

Lorca cannot recall having done so in his adult life, but he hangs his head. “I’m sorry I disturbed your rest.”

“Not …” A sigh, a rattle.

He gets the water straw to her mouth and she sips gratefully. “Gabr’l I nev’ thought of you’s such a sumbitch. Buh’ you’ve been diff’rnt e’er since B’ran.”

He feels something odd, an impulse to unburden himself. Because he realizes that what he’s been carrying is a burden of lies, to Kat, to this crew. He leans forward again, his gaze earnest.

“I’ll tell you what happened …”

“Dam’ straight y’will. ‘F I wan’t so batt’r’d brok’n ’n high I’d slap y’r face ‘n put ya outthe f’kn airlock.” Tears seep from the corners of her eyes and slide down her temples into her hair. “y’ _are_ gonna tell me but when ’m better and m’bullshit detector’s workin’ a hunnerd percent. Meanwh’l get th’ fuh out.”

He knows what the word “heartsick” means now. She trusted him and he fucked her in both senses of the word.

He writes her a letter. His handwriting is usually dashing, aggressive, dark; this time he’s going more slowly and it looks a bit better. Though his hands are shaky.

It’s a struggle: he can’t compromise himself with Michael and Uriel by telling the complete truth of who he is. _A killer, a bounder, a cad, a scoundrel, a spinner of lies …_

But he resolutely writes.

_Kat – Admiral –_

_You are one of the bravest women I know and I have immense respect for you._

_I hope you can forgive me someday for what I did. I practiced heartless deception, cozening, and manipulation. I did it to convince you to let me keep my ship, because I felt—and still feel—that with me as Discovery’s commanding officer we have the best chance at winning the war. There was another reason I may be able to tell you someday._

_But I am, as you said, not the man I used to be._

_I am a compromised man since I blew up the Buran. I have done terrible things._

_This alien abduction changed my life in ways I never expected. I can’t say more than that now, because I don’t fully understand it yet. But I would like to tell you someday, if you’re willing to hear it._

From what he gathered in the weeks before Discovery’s launch – and he spent many hours in Lorca’s San Francisco apartment – reading old personal journals and “refreshing” his “memory” of Lorca’s past, he and Kat had serious plans in the works for the years after their retirement … but for Kat, that might never be. And he regrets that, because she is a good woman. From what he’s read, she was a true love to … _her_ Lorca. The Lorca of her universe.

Gabriel is sure that he and Michael will be happy, if his hopes for the future – which have changed a lot – come to pass.

That Michael will be pardoned. That they can finish the Klingon war together, on Discovery. That once her service obligation is up, he can persuade her to leave the service so they can raise Uriel together.

But for Kat ….

_I’m sorry as hell, old friend. That I used you ill, that I was not a good man. I’m sorry I’m so different from the Gabriel you used to know, Kat. That our lives didn’t align like they were probably meant to._

What closing? … what to say? “I hope you’ll be happy someday”? “I hope you’ll have the great career you deserve”? “May the wind be always at your back”?

_I am honored to know you._

_Gabriel_

He puts the pen down, leans forward, and scrubs his hands through his hair. He finds an envelope and tucks the note inside, and addresses it, _Admiral K. Cornwell_.

His eyes hurt and a headache is starting, a hot spike through his right eye. He wants to go home to his wife and child.

He caps the pen and puts it away. He calls an ensign to take his letter to Admiral Cornwell’s bed in Sickbay or leave it with her things to go with her to Starbase 88.

He turns to look out through the viewport, but the stars are blurry.

So much has been lost.

And so much gained.

 


	21. A Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ash's transformation is a little different in this story. But as you know, we diverged from canon quite a while ago!

Cadet Sylvia Tilly enters Sickbay and looks around. It’s evening, so the lights are dim, and the only sounds are quiet conversations and the regular peeps and blumps of biobed monitors.

She’s off duty and is wearing her hair down. She’s seen Tyler noticing it, and he seems to like it, so _Take that, Mom._

She’s dressed and made up like the girl-next-door. Well, the “girl next door who was at work all day, ate supper, freshened up, changed and came to see you,” but Ash is a guy and guys notice the package but not all of its particulars. Rumor has it he went through something on the Klingon ship that left him unable to do his job. She wanted to look nice to take his mind off that.

She considered the outfit carefully. Coffee-brown jeans and a matching camisole top, russet sweater, loose knit, light textured. Brown “suede” flats to complete the ensemble, and a little tinted gloss on her lips. She wants to be quiet on her feet in Sickbay, not clomping around in hard-soled shoes.  She grabs a bag of knitting, just in case Tyler’s asleep. She hopes he’ll be awake but if he’s not, seeing a friendly face might help when he wakes up. And from what her ex-roomie Michael told her once, the soft click of knitting needles is rather soothing.

Sylvia hopes, as she’s heading down the passageway to Sickbay, that Ash won’t see her as some “consolation prize” for having lost Michael to Captain Lorca. (But, if you were a man and you lost a woman to another man – a man like Captain Gabriel Lorca, that couldn’t make you feel too bad, could it? _Because he is so damn competent and good-looking ... rowwr!_ ) And while Tilly senses that the captain is quite cheered by her presence in small bursts, he is the type of man who could enjoy her company only for so long. Michael is quieter and more serious, a more suitable match. Ash seems a more suitable match for Sylvia, because he’s outgoing, approachable, and patient, and said his sister talks a lot too. He’s used to it, right?

She sighs a little. Being around people – she loves it, and doesn’t, at the same time. If she’s with people who really know and love her, she’s fine. Because they know she talks too much and they’re okay with that. But people who don’t know her …  it makes her nervous that they don’t, and she talks to cover her nervousness, which only makes her more nervous, and natter more, _nattermore, that’d be a good name for my fantasy clan House if I had a House. The House of Nattermore, where we chit-chat over each other and knit all day._

Ash. Tilly’s had a crush on Ash Tyler since the Time of the Gormagander, as she thinks of it, and that bitchen’ party they all had, and there he was in his uniform, jacket a little open, smiling that brilliant smile, it kind of seemed, at _her_ , Sylvia! … and his longish hair and those melting brown eyes, not to mention his tall, muscular, soldierly build, put Tilly off her musician fantasy right then. But really, Michael needed someone even more than Syl did, and Ash needed someone, so Tilly just had to keep trying to bring them together. She just wanted them each to be happy with someone.

In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t such a hot idea, seeing as how now Michael and the captain have each other (Tilly can see through the “official denials” a mile away, and Michael thinks she can keep a secret but Tilly is a sharp observer, and she sees the way Michael and Gabri—CAPTAIN LORCA look at each other, so _any denials are completely a river in Egypt, and totally totally moot. Moot, I say! Now good day moot sir, I bid you Good Day!_ ) … and Tilly has no romance but at least she has friends. Which neither Ash nor Michael had when they came aboard Discovery. But now, Ash has no one … and neither does she. Friends are great, but Tilly really wants a boyfriend again, and she thought she saw interest in Ash’s eyes. He didn’t pull back when she touched his cheek the other night.

 _Oh criminy, I hope I remembered to put on a little perfume?_ She sniffs her wrist and is relieved to smell her very light perfume, a traditional blend of roses, and something else, just the sort of thing to “leave a man wondering” as Mom would say. Gotta watch that perfume though, Tilly had a fourth-year roommate who practically layered it on, some tutti-fruity stuff that smelled like bubblegum and citrus, yuk.

_._

In Sickbay, Ash Tyler is dreaming.

_“Lieutenant Ash Tyler, Starfleet, United Federation of Planets, Service Number 936 42 2846-Tango Romeo.”_

**_Slap!_ **

_Strapped down, spread-eagled, naked. The Klingon woman with the gray skin and penetrating light blue eyes is nude also, and she is mounting the table where he is strapped._

_What follows is ultimate powerlessness over his body’s own responses. His horror. Not so much her alien body, hell, he’s young, he’s Starfleet, he’s been to Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet where a huge variety of people of many species, races and sexual orientations offer themselves for a financial consideration …_

_But she’s violent too, as he knows Klingons must be, and her claw-like fingertips rake his chest as she rides him. He feels only pain, physical and emotional._

_She climaxes, screaming a roar, and he has had a climax as well, a culmination of his helplessness._

_Later she has him strapped in a chair. She is crooning to him. It seems she loves him, saying in her heavily accented Standard that he is big and strong and worthy of a Klingon warrior like herself. That he is to be her lover._

_That he is to have her dead Klingon lover’s memories implanted under his own._

_The process is painful, incredibly so. She gags his mouth because, as she tells him, she does not want to hear him scream. Perhaps someday if he is screaming in pleasure, but not now._

_Needles of shock and pain shoot throughout his body but particularly his head, where his physiological nerve center is. The brain itself does not feel pain, but it processes the signals throughout the body, and the human head can also experience migraine pain and worse. L’Rell knows this very well._

_The agony is unlike anything he’s ever known, even in the toughest parts of SERE training … his eyes are bleeding or weeping; he can’t tell. He can’t breathe; his nasal cavities are full of snot … or blood … and his mouth is sealed shut. Seeing his struggle for breath, L’Rell runs a tube from his nostril to his trachea so he can breathe. A little._

_His emotional and mental pain, his sense of shame, is echoed in the consciousness of the longtime Klingon outcast, L’Rell’s lover. The albino, Voq, Son of None. Tyler fights these feelings as best he can, but his resistance to L’Rell’s questions and treatment of him is now reduced to almost nothing._

_She is using him, a loyal Starfleet officer, in every possible way to help defeat the service he has loved. To kill his comrades, to hurt the Federation._

He emerges from the dream to hear a soothing voice.

.

.

So here is Sylvia Tilly, looking around the quiet, dim Sickbay from the main area, hoping that Ash isn’t hurting but that he’s awake so she can see him, or he can see her.

A handsome nurse pads by and Tilly reaches out saying, “Umm, excuse me? I’m looking for Ash ... Lieutenant Tyler, can you—”

“Alcove Two,” he says, “Just ahead, slightly to your right.”

“Thanks.”

Ash looks like he’s sleeping, so Tilly sits down to wait. She’s mentally going over some mycelial engineering interfaces she needs to inspect and tweak tomorrow, when Ash stirs a little, shuddering, and makes a little groan, and suddenly cries out. She leans toward him and gently touches the outside of his arm, hoping she doesn’t give him a shock like the one he seems to be dreaming about.  Whispering, “It’ll be okay, Ash, you’re back on Discovery,” she tries to bring him in from wherever he was in that bad dream.

He wakes with a deep, awful gasp, his body spasming. Then he lies back, eyes wide, and she can see him realizing where he is. It looks like he has tears at the corners of his eyes. She lightly encircles his hand in her own, offering a warm, safe place. A minute, two minutes pass. “Ash, hi, it’s Sylvia, are you okay?”

She’s gazing at him earnestly, and his eyes meet hers, as if seeking anchorage in rough waters. He finds it.

 .

The next day, after work, she visits again, and sits for awhile knitting, because Ash is asleep. His rest seems more peaceful this time.

After a while she feels him looking at her.

“Can I get some water?” he says. “M’mouf is dry.”

Tilly unclicks the straw leading to a coolpack of water attached to the biobed. She puts it in his hand and he raises it to his lips, sipping gratefully.

Then he holds the straw up, done, and Sylvia guides his hand to where the straw clicks back into place. “Now you know where it is. Keep drinking plenty of water,” she says. “How’s your ‘mouf’ now?”

He nods. “All good.” Ash is studying her, his dark eyes sparkling. “Good to see a sweet and friendly face. Hmm. Even your hair is bouncy.”

 _He said I’m sweet! Mom, my perfect revenge will be having a handsome boyfriend who loves my curls._ She laughs and pulls a curl a little, and it springs back. After a pause she says, “Am I helping your mood?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. “You sure are. Just … being here for me. It’s really nice.” His head drifts back down to the pillow.

She puts out her hand again and Ash takes it loosely in his own, and holding it, falls back to sleep.

.

“Hi, Ash,” Sylvia says the next day after work. “It’s good to see you sitting up!”

He is writing something special, by hand, pen and paper.

Starfleet cadets get training in penmanship, a skill that’s handy when you don’t have a hand computer or Padd. Like if you’re trapped somewhere and can only pass a note to the outside. Or if silence is enforced somewhere you might be in prison. Not that you’d have pen and paper, but at least you’d be able to scratch out letters or sign them in the air.

If you want to express thanks to a senior officer who showed you a courtesy or helped you in some way, a letter is considered the proper means. In the service it’s considered rude to express thanks through a simple comm message, written or vocal; although a holovid from the officer, wearing a proper uniform, is considered acceptable. Barely. _Old military traditions die hard,_ Tilly thinks.

“I’m thanking Admiral – Doctor – Cornwell for saving me from a complete breakdown on that Klingon ship. She was in terrible pain but she reached out with her voice and talked me through. Kept me in touch with reality. Not to mention shooting two Klingon attackers who were gonna kill us. But she got me together enough so I could counter the next threats.” His eyes look bright and he swallows hard as he folds the letter and puts it in an envelope.

“Do you mind if I ask what you mean, ‘breakdown’?”

“No, it’s okay. It’s PTSD from when I was a prisoner on this Klingon ship for several months. Captain Lorca saved me from there the first time, and Admiral Cornwell saved me the other day.”

“She is awesome isn’t she? I hope she gets better,” Tilly says.

“She should. She got MEDEVAC’ed to Starbase 88.”

“So how are you doing now?” Sylvia asks after a while. Ash is settled back and she’s knitting.

“I may be here a while. Or in counseling. I just ….” he sighs. “I don’t want to think about it right now. I am really tired.”

“Okay. I’ll sit with you awhile. Sleep away.” Tilly takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Tyler drowses into sleep and has her hand, so she puts down her knitting and diagrams future baby sweaters and hats and booties in her mind. Baby Uriel is going to look so cute in them.

 .

During her third visit, Tilly brings up counseling.

“It’ll help because the PTSD’s going to keep at you. I mean I wish it would all just go away for you, but it won’t.”

“Wow, that’s encouraging.” Ash has a spark of humor in his dark eyes.

“No, no, I know because my brother Syl crashed a shuttle when he was at the Academy flight school and he kept having terrible memories of the accident. Two of his classmates died in it and he felt it was all his fault. Of course it wasn’t, it was an equipment failure. He swore he wanted to just give up and leave Starfleet.”

Ash nods. He feels a bit like that himself.

“So when Sylvester was healing from his physical injuries, he got counseling and by the time he was ambulatory he realized he had a chance to start all over. He’d been a shitty boyfriend – he changed. He’d been a crappy friend – he changed. He was even _shy_ – he changed.

“I’m not saying you’re like him, Ash, because you’re a good guy, you’re outgoing and really likeable, but no one deserves to be haunted all their life by something they had no control over.” She looks at him earnestly, searchingly, and when his eyes meet hers she’s encouraged. “I think you deserve to heal, don’t you?”

“… Someone in your family was shy?”

 “Seriously?”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist asking. Consider it a humorous nudge in the ribs.”

She smiles at him, shaking her head. “Oh, _you_.”

“Will you help me start again, Sylvia?”

She nods, and they hold hands some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Our journey will be over in a few chapters. Please let us know how you enjoy the story. Comments are manna for fanfic writers!


	22. Feeling Some Type of Way

**Chapter 22**

In the weeks following the battle, it’s been largely silent on the war front. It seems the destruction of the Ship of the Dead has put the Klingons on the defensive, and Starfleet has taken up offensive posture—additional ships patrolling the boarder, firing on any battle cruiser that gets too close. The Klingons no longer have the element of surprise with their cloaks. Thanks the Stamets’ jumps, Discovery has managed to break the cloaking technology and distribute the algorithm fleet-wide. Now, though, their ship has been pulled back from the front for the time being.

“Give your crew some downtime,” Admiral Sh’lehn had told Lorca, and he was too mentally exhausted to protest it.

He wants and needs this time.

Uriel has just turned five months old, and Gabriel and Michael are pensive. With no fleet matters and few ship issues to deal with, their attention has turned solely to their son.

“I talked to Amanda today,” she says as they lay together, Uri between them, fast asleep after lunch, little belly tight and round. Lorca’s large hand rests gently on his son’s side, admiring the little figure as he breathes quickly, yet evenly, his body warm, the small heart beating strongly.

“What did she say?”

“She says she’s got Uriel’s room all set up,” Michael tells him sadly, touching Uri’s soft curls. “He’ll be fine, love,” he says, trying to offer her a comfort he’s struggling to achieve. He didn’t think it would be this hard. But the separation is imminent. Just a day before, he’d spoken to his mothers, confirming the time of their arrival on Vulcan.

If all goes to plan, they will all get there about the same time.

Sarek and Amanda have offered to host them all.

“Do they have enough room?” Gabriel had asked.

“The compound is adequate,” Michael had said.

“Compound?”

“It is…vast,” she’d told him, leaving him curious about the place she grew up in. He supposes he’ll see it when they get there.

In another month.

 They’ve been trying to wean Uriel. The operative word, being “trying.” And Michael is finding it’s so hard to let go. The first few days were horrible, as Uri had cried, and cried, rejecting their attempts at formula, turning his face away from the bottle and burrowing into her chest, and when Gabriel had tried, his too. The first several times of this, she’d broken down and fed him herself. But they both knew she couldn’t keep doing it.

And so, to help, Gabriel had taken to holding Michael in his arms, shoring her up as she held Uri in hers, feeding him with a bottle. He’d cried again in protest, but after more tries. She finally got him to accept it. Still, it doesn’t help, that each time her baby cries, she starts lactating, her body programmed to respond to her child.

It’s been miserable going, as the parenting bonds are slowly starting to stretch.

.

.

She finally breaks. And it happens in the middle of the night, when he’s awakened by sobs coming from the bathroom.

“Michael?”

He finds her, curled up in the shower, knees pulled against her chest, and she doesn’t have to say anything. Frankly, he’s surprised either of them managed to hold it in this long. Gabriel sits beside her and she leans into him, crying.

“I don’t want to lose him,” she says. “It’s not fair. It’s not right that they can just order him away from us. Uriel didn’t do anything wrong.”

He strokes her hair, kissing the top of her head.

“But we did,” he says, quietly. “It’s the best way.”

“But I’m never going to see him again.”

“No, love,” he tells her, the dread seeping up into his heart. “No…you’ll see him. I’ll make sure of it. They won’t keep you away. And you won’t go back, I swear.”

“You can’t guarantee that, Gabriel. I don’t have rights. I’m a prisoner. And I know you love me, but you’ll have to let me go. I will lose both of you.”

There are no words he can say to counter it, because her reasoning and logic are correct. The war is ending. Uriel will soon be gone. Eventually, Starfleet will come back for its pound of flesh.

And Gabriel knows there’s something he has to do. For Michael’s sake, and that of his family.

He is no longer too proud to _beg_.

.

.

 Admiral Katrina Cornwell is sitting up in a biobed in the hospital at Starbase 88. She has finally worked up the energy to read Gabriel Lorca’s letter to her. Some string of apologies, probably. She has a vague memory of spitting anger at him when she was on board Discovery, just rescued from the Klingon prison ship. More like drooling anger – she was pretty drugged up.

She sighs. The physicians on Discovery did their best to ensure she was safe for transport; when she arrived here 88’s OR was ready and the surgeries went very well. Like most Starfleet officers, Katrina is an athlete and will have a speedy recovery. She’s doing physical therapy now and making good progress. Pain meds are no longer needed, but she’s constantly tired. In a week or two she’ll go to Vulcan for advanced healing techniques.

Holding his letter, she feels her stomach thrumming with tension, she’s thinking back to the night before Cancri III. Cancri II where, replacing Ambassador Sarek, she went to negotiate with the Klingons but was ambushed.

A fine top-off after that night before. The “night before” – all her actions and his – and her reactions. She’s been frightened for her life before – she’s a Starfleet officer after all – but never in fear of a friend. A … lover.

Recalling her fear brings the horror right back. Her thoughts right after it happened are etched in her mind, when she stood just inside the door of her quarters, so shaken she couldn’t calm herself.

_Gabriel was not much of a cuddler, but would hold her as he drifted off to sleep after sex, and he never minded her touching him while he slept, or when he was drowsy._

_There’s been quite a change. One touch from Katrina, tracing a scar on his back – and a lightning-quick response from Gabriel, who put a phaser in her face and a hand on her throat. About to kill her._

_He came to himself, the mad expression left his face, and he calmed himself immediately, putting down the phaser, looking down at her, contrite, and held that expression as she got up and started yelling._

_She smiles ruefully into the mirror. His self-defense responses are top-notch. But unusual for a starship captain, on his own ship, not in a hostile situation. Why would he react like it was a hostile situation? Because she might be evaluating him to remove him from command?_

_Is that life and death for him? Why? Command and action are his raisons d’etre, but surely Gabriel could deal with being removed temporarily to be evaluated more thoroughly, and psychologically treated if necessary. How long might that take, a few months? Less? He’s famously resilient._

_So why “life and death”? It’s not like he’d be giving up Discovery forever. The Gabriel she knew before the Buran incident would’ve been sarcastic with her, filed formal protests up the chain of command, but he’d have followed orders. A temporary CO would be appointed, or the first officer bumped up until the captain returned. Discovery is a top-secret project, so not just any commander could take her._

_The adrenaline Gabriel’s attack brought on is subsiding, now. Katrina’s knees have stopped quaking and her breath is slowing. The tightness in her chest has relaxed. In her guest quarters, she braces herself on the bathroom sink for a second, then splashes her face with cool water, following with a cotton ball soaked in some refreshing witch hazel._

_Despite her ablutions, she looks like shit. It’s the lighting in here, she thinks. For some reason, it makes her eyes glint out like a baby marmoset’s and shows every goddamn wrinkle in her face. Lines of experience; yes, even wisdom._

_Most of the time._

_Now she has some hard-earned wisdom._

_The lighting on Discovery, except for the Galley, Sickbay and passageways, is very low, mysterious-looking.  Even the bridge is dark. Because of Gabriel’s eyes._

_Perhaps the captain feels the low lighting gives him an advantage – it’s not easy to see what he’s thinking._

_She has for some time suspected he cheated the psych evals after the destruction of the Buran.  Surely he’d experienced intense guilt and stress, but he answered the questions as if he’d simply gone through a strategically tough battle, crippled or destroyed some enemy ships, and sailed on, the only casualties in his wake those of the aggressors._

_Nope._

_An entire Starfleet crew. His crew._

_A captain, alone, making a terrible decision for all of them._

_Who wants brutal Klingon torture after all? And who wants their crew subjected to it, possibly for years?_

_But what captain would violate the ancient tradition of going down with the ship? What captain would not stay to offer what comfort he could to his crew at the very last? Why the hell had he done … what he did?_

_Maybe he thanked them, before destroying the ship. But she will never understand – or know – exactly what happened. It is concealed deep behind those blue eyes._

_Never were they icy blue eyes, before the Buran. Never to her, at least. Gabe and Kat had loved each other for a long time. They spent nights together, sometimes impaired by wine, sometimes cold sober, camping on various planets, or pacing the perimeter of a space station, passionately debating the state of Starfleet and the Federation. Once they had been seen in the middle of a passionate argument about how complacent Starfleet had become. Or they’d chat in a relaxed way about their future after retirement, falling asleep together after satisfying lovemaking. And it was lovemaking, then.  Yet they have always been careful to maintain the appearance of propriety. _

_Last night, not so much. Advantage: Gabriel Lorca. Or whoever the hell he is now._

_Cornwell sighs._

_Their Academy history is discoverable in any investigation for security clearance, but since she achieved a position in which she supervised starship captains – and especially after achieving admiral rank, she has abandoned the idea of “friends with benefits” to maintain more neutrality. She has missed the twinkle in those eyes of Gabriel’s. The smile she saw last night was a fraud – one designed to lull her suspicions._

_Last night?_

_Alcohol-related error in judgement._

_And, an error afterward, her spate of words and very angry reaction to his attack on her as good as an admission. Yes, yes I did this to see how you are, how you really are. _

_And he is nothing like he was. The lovemaking was different, though still good. Skilled. Designed to make her focus in the moment. And boy, she thinks, did I focus._

_Before they went to sleep, she intercepted a quick glance from him when she put her small-shirt back on. His expression changed, and she was uneasy because of that look._

_At first she thought he was checking out the nude Kat now, compared with the Katrina of days gone by. But no. Now she knows, it was a look of appraisal, which he quickly changed into that cheerful, twinkly-eyed conspiratorial look they used to share. It wasn’t sexual or relational appraisal, but the kind of look she sometimes saw from her teen-aged nephew: am I getting away with this?_

_He is frightened now, she thinks. Angry, trying to achieve ends he dare not let her know about._

_He is cool, but not the kind of cool he used to be. His manner is easy, but beneath is the tension of a jungle cat._

_And she’d almost gotten killed by this man who’d been her good friend._

_But what the hell was he doing last night, manipulating her? Did he think one very nice roll in the sack would stop her from evaluating his state of mind?_

_Any woman is tuned in to a lover’s state of mind. Any woman asks herself these questions, if not always with the same expertise in psychology. Any woman who has a care for self-preservation._

_Almost blew that, too._

_“Don’t take her from me – she’s all I’ve got,” he said of his ship as Kat angrily left his quarters. Oh, those bright baby blues. The emotional break in his voice, the desperation on his face. What a performer! Cripes._

_She hadn’t evaluated Lorca by herself after the Buran incident. But she had been on the team._

_And although she had her suspicions at the time, the other command evaluators felt fine with Lorca taking command of another ship. A new, experimental ship._

_She hadn’t voiced her hesitations about Lorca’s readiness for command.  She hadn’t because she was the new admiral on the team. Because of her history with him, a history some of the other admirals knew._

_In the end, she lacked the courage to stand strong in her opinion against the majority of experienced psychiatrists and psychologists on Lorca’s Eval Board. Her conclusions based on her professional assessment of him wavered in the face of theirs. Maybe her courage failed her because it meant denying her old friend the thing he wanted most in his world, another command._

_And who’s to say they’d have listened to her doubts? Who’s to say they wouldn’t have heard them and still voted in the majority to install him as CO of Discovery?_

_Never had she felt the continual tension from him she feels now. Has been feeling for months._

.

_Yes, she admits to herself, I did sleep with Gabriel to try to figure out what the hell’s going on with him. I slept with him after too many drinks for old times’ sake. And I did it because I want to know if he is the same person he was._

_He’s not._

.

During torture on the Klingon ship Sarcophagus, resisting any suggestion that she knew about Discovery’s Big Secret, she spent her rage against her captors by raging inwardly at Lorca. This strange new Lorca who betrayed everything they’d had together.

_He took Michael Burnham onto Discovery for a reason. Yes, she is an excellent officer, or at least she was, before her mutiny. Lorca feels she will be useful. He appears to … perhaps … rely on her. Perhaps he likes that he is her salvation. Perhaps he likes having her in his debt._

_Bastard._

She takes a deep breath and reads the letter, written in a hand slightly different than Lorca’s usual. Not that it’s so much more careful, just that some of the loops go lower and the writing is forceful. Gabriel used to write Katrina cards and letters when he couldn’t meet her somewhere, when an assignment went too long; when his ship had been in terrible danger; or just when he missed her (not gooey sentimental, but honestly so). And – oddly – she’s had no handwritten correspondence from him since after Buran. Well, okay, one birthday card. She figured he was being pissy because of the inquiry, because she didn’t fight hard enough for him. (She couldn’t tell him how she voted.)

His handwriting has always looked like it was dashing forward, but was never so heavy before. This is interesting. Although most aspects of Graphology have been pooh-poohed by scientists, some factors still seem to ring true: dashing-forward writing is often a sign of an ambitious nature. As for the deep loops, again, a sexual or sensual nature, and Lorca had always written deep loops; he was sensual and delightfully sexual, but they hadn’t looked quite like this before. The heaviness of pressure would be odd, but Lorca is no longer the cool head he once was.

_Okay, Kat, you’re distracting yourself from how you feel. What the hell is he saying here?_

These phrases alert her to his oddity:

_“I hope you can forgive me someday for what I did.” (As if, she thinks. And what you did when, specifically? Between the Buran disaster and now? Or the night you fucked me?)_

**_“I practiced heartless deception, cozening, and manipulation.”_ ** _(Fuckin’ A right you did.)_

_“I did it to convince you to let me keep my ship, because I felt—and still feel—that with me as Discovery’s commanding officer we have the best chance at winning the war.” (Really, Gabriel, you were aces at the sex, but you didn’t fuck me blind.)_

**_“There was another reason I may be able to tell you someday.”_ ** _(Oh really? Something so bad you can’t tell me right now? Hmm, what could it be? “I’m willing to fuck over my old friend and lover to get what I want” isn’t bad enough?)_

_Deep breath. Assess._

So he’s changed, because he’s forthrightly admitting what he did, as opposed to how he’s acted ever since the Buran inquiry. And what’s this “other reason”? Is this what he wanted to tell her in Discovery’s medbay, when  she was so fucked up on pain meds, and definitely did not want to hear?

 _“But I am, as you said, **not the man I used to be.”** _ Owning up to this too. Yep, odd, coming from the guy who seems to have been lying since the Buran.

_“I am a compromised man since I blew up the Buran. **I have done terrible things.”**_

Okay, blowing up the Buran was terrible indeed. But what other things has he done that were terrible? Good lord.

_“This alien abduction changed my life **in ways I never expected. I can’t say more than that now** , because I don’t fully understand it yet. But **I would like to tell you someday, if you’re willing to hear it.”**_

_“I’m sorry as hell, old friend._

_“That I used you ill, that I was not a good man. **I’m sorry I’m so different from the Gabriel you used to know, Kat. That our lives didn’t align like they were probably meant to.”**_

This is weird. Because they were careful in their face-to-face dealings to say “I’m your friend” rather than “I love you” or similar more intimate phrases. But even since Kat had moved into a supervisory position over Gabriel, in handwritten correspondence, usually regarded by Starfleet as sacrosanct, he would allude to or directly mention their love. Plans for their future, once the war is won and they can retire. No more of that since Buran, though.

“The Gabriel you used to know” and “align like they were probably meant to” – the Gabriel she used to know had definitely aligned his life with hers. So what the hell? But his suspicion that she was just claiming friendship to keep a close watch on him could have eroded his love for her.

It’s so odd that he used the phrase “the Gabriel you used to know” instead of something like “I’m sorry _I’m_ so different now.”

She supposes a year away with the brilliant and lovely (and young, and fresh) Specialist Burnham, conceiving a baby together – however it was done – watching her grow large with his child, and give birth, could change a man, and his feelings as well.

_We were supposed to have a child, Gabriel. I was going to be your wife. Damn those aliens. Damn you. And damn you, Burnham, even if you saved me from the Klingons. You’ve screwed up the rest of my life. All I have left is my career._

Katrina’s intellectual side has deserted her, and in mourning, she weeps.

She realizes she’s crying really hard when a nurse stops in to see if he can help. She shakes her head vehemently, but the nurse seems to know better, dampening a thick cloth and offering it to her. She presses it to her overheated face; he nods and moves on. She wipes the tears and snot off too, drinks half a liter of water, then lies down and sleeps heavily.

Hours later she wakes. Admiral Cornwell is the only Katrina left. She takes a shower, not quite so easy yet, then asks for some food.

.

.

After her first hearty breakfast in some time, Cornwell reviews the transcript of the Board of Inquiry into the disappearance of Lorca and Burnham from Discovery: a scientific wonder that lasted one year or so for them, but only weeks for the crew of Lorca’s ship.

A year together, isolated as a pair, would certainly lead to intimacy, if only the intimacy of mutual preservation, of survival, the kind of deep camaraderie seen in combat survivors from the same unit. And that is reflected in the answers Lorca gave to the Board. Cornwell notes Burnham was much more circumspect, being in a delicate position. Lorca was careful to avoid any mention of love for Burnham.

(And he didn’t seem to have felt any love for Katrina on the night he’d drunk with her and … and fucked her. _Let’s just call it what it was. A good, skillful fuck._ )

She swallows her resentment and reasons with herself.

Gabriel has moved on, and she must practice doing that herself, just to get some inner peace.

She can’t possibly care for him after that night. She’s already scheduled PTSD counseling for the fuck/fuckover. Maybe both she and Lorca did it under false pretenses, but at least she went in with her heart open. Looking for her friend, her lover. And didn’t find him. She let herself believe, in the moment. How fucking stupid.

Lorca was simply trying to lull her suspicions by sleeping with her. He didn’t seem to remember the night of the Perseids either; that had been a very special night for them, wishing on “stars,” talking of their future. Why would he forget that?

He was tortured by Klingons, weeks before; maybe his mind was torn up. Klingons were terribly skilled in that area.

Still, she hurts. Katrina’s eyes are wet with tears. _Farewell to “us,” Gabriel. Farewell, love._

She takes a break from thinking, overwhelmed by emotion and stands gingerly, and does twenty minutes of Tai Chi. That which she can’t do physically yet, she stands and visualizes in “real time,” going through the movements in her mind. As she did during those weeks on the Klingon ship, bruised and battered, but not broken in spirit.


	23. The Uneven Hands of Fate

“Jesus CHRIST! It’s hotter than a whore in church! Do Vulcans believe in climate control at all?”

“Hush Mildred,” Lurlene shoots a side glance to her wife while fanning herself. They’ve been on Vulcan all of five minutes since departing the transport, but she too is feeling it. The higher temperature, the heavier gravity, the thinner atmosphere. They were warned of it before embarking, took a Trioxx shot before leaving departing Earth, but it’s one thing to be told and another to experience.

Amazing to think another humanoid species managed to thrive here, without basic air conditioning. Thank goodness for John Gorrie and the former state of Florida.

They make their way through the terminal and as they go a tall, brunette woman dressed in flowing white robes comes toward them. The three women recognize each other immediately. For one, they’re the only three humans in the area.

“You must be Mildred,” Amanda says, smiling at Gabriel’s birth mother. Amanda knows this must be her. She and Lorca share the same type of magisterial nose, and shape of the eyes.  “And Lurlene,” she says, embracing the shorter, red headed woman with streaks of gray.

“Welcome to Vulcan! Please, come. Do you have much luggage? If so, we’ll arrange transport for it to the compound.”

“Compound?” Lurlene questions. She looks at Mildred who looks a bit puzzled as well. Amanda blushes slightly. “Um…yes. Well, Vulcan families tend to have their entire extended family living in a single area,” she explains.

“Oh! Yes, we’re familiar,” Lurlene says quickly. “That’s how they used to live in the South some generations ago.”

They follow Amanda to a waiting transport. There, a Vulcan male acknowledges them and opens the doors as they climb in.

The transport takes off, weaving between buildings that hang as if by magic from the cliffs, and skyscrapers that rise from the surface – and hang from huge rocky outcrops. Mildred marvels at the engineering. She’s seen images of Vulcan building styles but seeing those carved out of cliffs is fascinating.

“How is the weight supported?” she asks Amanda.

“I don’t really know,” Amanda tells her. “From what I’ve been told though, those are some of the oldest ones. They date back from before Surak.”

“What a shame such technology has been lost,” Mildred comments a bit sadly. “I’d love to have a chat with those engineers someday.”

“You’re an engineer?” Amanda asks.

“Yes. Structural.”

“And I’m a pianist and teacher -- jazz,” Lurlene tells Amanda.

“Oh, piano! I’m afraid I’m not very musically inclined,” Burnham’s mother says. “My talents lie elsewhere.”

“What do you do?” Lurlene asks.

“I do a lot of traveling as Ambassador Sarek’s wife, but I keep up with, and lecture in my profession. My formal education is in cultural anthropology and xenolinguistics.”

“How does that work,” Mildred asks, leaning in curiously.

“Very delicately,” Amanda tells her, smiling. “You could say I have a…talented tongue.”

It’s said with a tinge of naughtiness, and the three women let out peals of laughter. Their Vulcan driver glances at them in a mirror.

“I can tell we’re going to be great friends,” Lurlene says, trying to regain a semblance of composure. It’s clear that even after nearly three decades of living on Vulcan, Burnham’s adoptive mother is still down to Earth.

The transport maneuvers out of the city, and into the desert, and they fly low and fast over rounding dunes in shades of burnt reds and oranges, matching a similarly colored sky. It’s like a sunset in the middle of the day. After a while, the transport begins to slow, and Mildred and Lurlene begin spotting large homes, some built into rocks, others standing independently, each spaced at least hundreds of acres, or even miles apart.

But they’re gob-smacked at the tall, somewhat imposing house that that the transport comes to rest at.

“This…is your house?” Lurlene asks. It’s far grander than the one they reside at in New Orleans, and Mildred’s ancestral home, where they live, is one of the largest and grandest on St. Charles Avenue. If anything, this home resembles the Vulcan embassy, its stone walls dark, nearly black, looking as it if were carved from volcanic ash.

“This home is one of the few that date back to the time of Surak as well,” Amanda explains. “It’s been in my husband’s family for thousands of years. Apparently, Vulcans needed their space.”

“I’ll say,” Mildred says incredulously, as they exit the car and stride up to two very large, very imposing doors that rise at least three meters high. “Were their ancestors giants?”

.

.

“Captain, we’re entering orbit around Vulcan.”

Saru’s voice reaches them in their quarters.

Time is up.

Michael is dressed in civilian clothes, lightweight flowing pants and a fitted tunic, split on the sides. It’s very … Vulcan, Gabriel thinks, watching as she picks up Uriel from his bassinet and cradles him in her arms, nuzzling his cheek with hers.

It hurts him, physically hurts—to see Michael so sad. She’s held it together admirably for these last few weeks, but even now, her tears haven’t dried, they just sit at the corners of her eyes. Those eyes, wide and dark, and tinged red. He hates it. Despises it, really. A part of him had hoped maybe Starfleet would come through, would issue some last-minute order, a reprieve. But nothing. And that angers him even more. It’s a cruelty that, to be frank, he’d thought humans to be above. He’d thought that her sacrifice, Michael’s risk and the rescue of Admiral Cornwell would have been enough for a pardon, at least. But no.

What’s done is done.

It’s what they agreed to. What they were given. And they have to deal with the uneven hands of fate.

At least they have a few days.

 Gabriel has the bags. He too, is dressed in civilian clothes, something similar to what Michael is wearing, but his green tunic has a deep V at the neck, the sleeves open to the elbows, loose trousers a dark brown color. The fabric feels strange—he’s not accustomed to civilian wear. Owns little of it. Most of his life and time have been spent in service.

Quietly, he moves to Michael, standing by the bed with Uriel, and wraps his arms around her shoulders while looking down at their son. Uriel is awake, but quiet, surprising him. He’d thought the baby was asleep he’s been so silent. But no. Those wide, hazel-colored eyes meet his. Uriel looks solemn, like he knows something happening. A small hand reaches up to him, and he gives Uri his index finger to hold. Michael’s shoulders shake, and he knows she’s crying now. That she’s breaking.

“The transport is prepared, Captain.”

 Saru again.

Lorca taps the wall comm and speaks into it, his voice coming out raspy. “Acknowledged.”

Michael turns to him, and he sees her face.

“Come here.”

She does, into his open arms, Uri between them. They look down at him and he blinks, still silent and still.

“It’ll be okay,” Lorca tells Michael, stroking Uri’s cheek. He’s having a hard time—such a hard time, but something in the way their son looks at him gives him hope that this isn’t over yet. That it’s not going to end in separation.

“I’m not done yet,” he tells them both, placing a kiss on the baby’s forehead, before slipping an arm around her back and picking up their bags as he guides them out of their quarters.

The halls are sparsely populated as they go, baby in arms, but they realize why when they get to the shuttle bay and the doors open, revealing almost the entire crew.

Saru is standing in front of the group, along with a smiling CMO, Dr. Culber, and Tilly. It’s Tilly who steps forward nervously.

“We wanted to say goodbye to Uriel,” she tells them. “If that’s alright with you, sir.”

Michael smiles for the first time in weeks, touched by the gesture. The Captain does too.

It’s the first time most of the crew have ever seen the Captain smile. In arms, Uriel lets out a little squeal when he lays eyes on his Auntie Tilly and Uncles Culber, Stamets and Saru. He waves his arms and kicks his fat little legs, and they all laugh, breaking the emotional tension of the moment. One by one, crewmen and women come to say goodbye, and by the time the family is in the shuttle, their two bags are accompanied by far more than luggage. There are bags of gifts for Uri: toys and holovids, blankets and other hand-crafted goodies.


	24. A Family Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few more chapters left...we're getting there, folks!

**Chapter 24**

Sarek is not there to see the arrival. He misses it when the doors to the compound open, and Amanda, Mildred and Lurlene rush out to greet Michael and Gabriel. Or rather, they rush out to greet who Michael is holding, all three women excited to see their new grandson.

He misses how, despite her sadness at the impending separation, Michael is genuinely happy to see Amanda. The reunion between the two women so bittersweet: both had believed they’d likely never see each other in person again.

And he certainly misses it when Lurlene and Mildred wrap their arms around Gabriel, and look at him—Mildred studying him, really—after the brief hug. He’s isn’t there to see the fleeting recognition in Mildred Lorca’s eyes that something isn’t right. It’s in the way Gabriel hugs them back, slightly stiffly.  Amanda leads everyone into the great hall. Uriel seems quite excited at the large, bounding and slightly fearsome creature the size of a bear that comes galumphing up to them, its heavy impact and sharp claws on the stone floors causing an echo through the house.

Gabriel jumps back defensively, putting himself between Michael, Uriel and the animal, reaching for a phaser that isn’t there. But his wife grabs his hand and bends down to let the creature sniff the child before giving her a long, affectionate lick to the face.

“What IS that?” Gabriel is mortified. The fangs alone are more than a bit intimidating—like one of those ancient sabre-tooth cats from Earth and Terra’s prehistoric age, except this thing is alive and…

“It’s I’Chaya -sa-fu,” Michael explains, stroking the animal behind the ears flopping down on its head.  “Sarek’s pet.”

Gabriel looks incredulously at the creature, now settled on its haunches and regarding them mildly. Everyone files into the living room behind Amanda and the sehlat.

Sarek misses his wife’s laughter in the moment. Misses the way Mildred glances at Lurlene.  

He’s not at the compound.

Instead, he’s in the city, making his way down a long corridor of the Vulcan Healing Center.

“I am here for Admiral Katrina Cornwell,” he tells the guard standing at the door. The Vulcan sentry bows before him and moves aside, allowing him to enter as the doors open.

.

.

Cornwell’s been recuperating on Vulcan for about two weeks now. Gradually working into regular physical exercise and meditation, the latter recommended by her Healer.

Her meditations with Tarikim, an elder female Healer, have eased her emotional pain. The physical problems have mostly abated due to the gifted hands of Starfleet’s best physicians. The emotional scars are a different matter. Those, no regular physician can address. She has tried treating herself. She’s tried rationalizing her feelings, explaining them, dissecting them, analyzing them in the way she has told her former clients to do. It has not worked. The objective psychiatrist Katrina is failing to get through to the woman Katrina. Even the Healer saw how much she was hurting over the fact that Gabriel had deceived her, and that now she has a black hole where her feelings of love were.  Tarikim, in a roundabout way, convinced her to come to Vulcan to seek a different sort of healing through Vulcan meditation, which somehow goes deeper.

Cornwell’s sitting at the desk in her quarters poring over Fleet data when she hears a discreet knock. “Come,” she calls.

Sarek walks in. “Admiral Cornwell, greetings.”

Taking her cane, Katrina walks into the living room area and motions toward the sofa. “Ambassador, you have asked to speak with me?”

“There is a matter of some importance to discuss,” he tells her. “I am sure by now you are aware that Captain Lorca and Specialist Burnham have arrived on Vulcan.”

He does not call Michael his daughter. But Katrina already knows she is. It is in her file. Yet the mention of Captain Lorca sends a rush of emotion forth that she has to hold back. She nods and swallows. Cornwell grips the cane to steady herself before speaking again.

“Yes, sir, I saw it in the clearance reports.”

“I am pleased to see you are almost recovered from your ordeal.”

Kat smiles sadly. “Almost, indeed. Would you care to walk? I have an appointment soon.” The grounds of the healing facility are expansive, with desert vegetation, carefully placed rocks in gardens, and sculpture. She asked Tarikim about this soon after her arrival, noting how not-so-logical it was, how … artistic it was, really. The Vulcan woman glanced at her and said, “Art serves a purpose.” Now, having been here and adjusted to the climate more, Cornwell understands. The gardens are calming. Walking through them forces a person to focus on the moment, drawing attention from the problems that brought one here in the first place.

“Certainly,” Sarek says. They leave Katrina’s quarters and walk down the hall and into the courtyard outside. He falls in beside her on the path, and they walk slowly together.

“I regret that you met with the Klingon ambush that was intended for me,” Sarek says, folding his hands behind his back.  

“I regret it too, but better they hadn’t attacked anyone. It would have been good to have a negotiated peace.”

“Indeed. If I had acted more quickly after the extremist tried to destroy my ship, I would have been at Cancri IV.”

“They got me instead. And I have no family. No survivors. So if someone had to die, better it had been me.” She’s trying to be pragmatic about it. But realizes, once it’s out, how moribund it sounds.

Sarek raises an eyebrow, giving Cornwell a steady look. “I hope,” he says slowly, “that you will choose to honor the remaining life you have been given.”

She realizes in that moment that Sarek’s adopted daughter, Michael, saved her, and Burnham could have been lost to him twice over. Locked away in a Federation prison, or in the hands of the Klingons, the second by far a riskier proposition.

“That was stupid of me to say,” Katrina tells the ambassador, feeling chastened. “Your daughter risked her life to save mine, and I truly appreciate it. It’s just that … my near death brought up feelings I wasn’t … prepared for. This entire experience has been difficult.”

Sarek nods. “I underwent a similar experience in the Nebula, where Michael rescued me. And I am wiser for it.”

“Thank you for telling me. I think … I can accept such wisdom, with some help.”

Sarek looks around the area, then at Katrina. “Should you desire to explore more of Vulcan,” he tells her, “my home is always open to you.”

 The Ambassador takes his leave as they approach the building that houses Tarikim’s sanctum.

“You are late, Admiral,” the healer says when she walks in.

 “My apologies, Tarikim,” Cornwell says, leaning on her cane a bit as she settles down on a cushion on the floor, mimicking, as closely as her body will allow, the Healer’s cross-legged position. Between them is a fire pit, burning low with ember, casting the room in a warm, flickering red hue. Tendrils of smoke drift to the dark corners with a fragrance she cannot identify. It is calming. Needed. Something to bring comfort to a tired mind, an abused heart, and a pained body.

.

.

“‘It’s an A-one com-bi-na-tion, we’re the perfect he and she … I’m crazy ‘bout my ba-by … and my baby’s crazy ‘bout me,’” Lurlene is singing, gently joggling Uriel in her arms as she dances around the living room. Amanda has given everyone a bit of wine as they wait for Sarek and Gabriel to return. Uriel gives a loud, enthusiastic, “GAH!” and he’s right in time with the beat. Lurlene laughs. “Remember when we used to dance to this with Gabriel, Mildred? A Dixieland jazz classic.”

“I remember you used to try to get me to dance with you, then you’d get Gabriel to do it instead,” Mildred says, pouring herself another ounce or two of wine.

“Oh, memories!”

Amanda laughs and looks at Michael. “I remember when a certain young lady did a science experiment and blew up part of the kitchen.”

With a mock-serious expression Burnham says, “Don’t forget, Spock was in on it too.”

“But you led him astray, my dear. He’s younger than you are.” Amanda’s eyes are sparkling.

“Oh no no no, Mother, he was not as mature, but he definitely had enough knowledge—even at his tender age—to prevent that mistake. I think he was having some fun at my expense. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

Lurlene has handed Uriel off to Mildred, who is only too happy to hold the baby.

Michael stands, going over to give Uriel a kiss. “I’ll be right back.” To Amanda, she says, “Mother, may I speak to you privately for a moment?”

Amanda smiles at the grandmothers and leads the way out of the room. They go to the terrace, which is hot and bright at this time of day, but they stand in the shade. The air is spicy and fragrant with the roses Amanda loves to tend, their colors just now washed out by the sun.

“Gabriel is concerned,” Michael tells Amanda, taking her hands and looking seriously at her. “He wants Uriel to respect what it is to be human. He’s worried because of my upbringing … how Sarek demanded strict logic from me, required from me that I make myself as Vulcan as possible.”

Amanda reaches up a hand to cup the side of Michael’s face. “I think he has learned from his experience with you. When your mind touched his, and he learned how you truly felt the day you were not selected for the Expeditionary Force – ashamed, unworthy. And he felt unworthy too, when he understood the cost to you, of his decision. Since you and Gabriel asked us to care for Uriel, I insisted that your boy get a well-rounded Vulcan – and Human – education and family life, and Sarek agrees. I’ll be here for him, I promise you that, Michael.”

.

.

Lorca’s trying to disguise his struggle to keep up with Sarek on their way up the mountain path, but the heat, coupled with the thin air, is beginning to take its toll.

Everything is some shade of red or ochre, the rocks, the ground, some of the desert vegetation, even Vulcan’s sky. They have walked up a seemingly endless, precipitous pathway to a circular plateau that reminds him of pictures of Stonehenge in Earth’s England, in the United States of Europe.

“This is the marriage ground of my ancestors, where Amanda and I were bonded,” Sarek tells Lorca. 

The rocks here are sparkly. Mica flecks in granite or something like, he supposes, and doesn’t really care. He’s never been to Vulcan before, even in the … otherwhere, so he was unprepared. He’s still trying to get his breath without looking as though he’s trying to get his breath. He inhales and exhales long and deep.

“You may wish to avail yourself of some Tri-Ox compound when we return to my home,” says Sarek, politely looking off into the distance. “Amanda requires it sometimes. Vulcan’s atmosphere is thinner than that of Earth.”

Lorca would roll his eyes, but this is an ambassador and the adoptive father of his wife, so he keeps his face under control. He walks over to a circle in the ground. “Firepit?”

“Yes,” Sarek answers. His expression closes. “You may wish to bond with Michael here, as it is the Schn T’gai marriage ground.”

“Hmm. I’ll ask Michael if she’d like to do that. Get married here.”

“I _strongly_ suggest it.”

Lorca bites his tongue at the brisk tone, but thinks of Sarek and Amanda’s point of view.

“If I may, Ambassador … Vulcan society seems to be a strange mix of ancient tradition and the teachings of Surak,” he begins again, slowly now. He’s made a brief study of it since he and Michael married and returned to Discovery. “How do you all justify wealth … do you consider it logical?” _Terrans sure as hell do._

“Those of us with great wealth practice _noblesse oblige_ , as humans used to say. We ensure that all Vulcans are able to perform to the best of their ability in their chosen educations and livelihoods. We have what you would call a meritocracy. The talented are supported by society. Art has a purpose; education, science … all life-enhancing purposes are treasured among my people.”

_Quite a difference from where I grew up._

“Speaking of Vulcan society, Ambassador,” Lorca says, “I wonder if I could talk with you about my son.”

Sarek turns to look at him and Gabriel feels the intensity of his gaze.

“I want – Michael and I both want – for Uriel to feel proud of who he is.” Lorca looks down, this isn’t coming out quite right but perhaps he has the excuse of oxygen deprivation. “I don’t want him to feel ‘less than’ because he’s not Vulcan. I’ve seen how it affected Michael. It’s a huge demand for a human child to try to live up to Vulcan standards.”

“Do not concern yourself, Captain. My wife and I have discussed the subject … at length. We will accommodate his human nature and teach him some Vulcan disciplines also, but not with the same rigor as I … as we did with Michael.”

Sarek begins walking toward the “gateway” of the marriage ground. Lorca stands still for a moment, looking around. Would Michael like this, or is she satisfied with their intimate marriage?

.

.

“Oh my god, honey,” Lurlene is laughing. Mildred puts a hand on her arm, a signal: _You’re getting a bit loud, dear,_ and Lurlene pats it.  _I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do._

“Do you remember when Ambrose Stewart’s dog kept coming into our yard and Gabriel took care of it?”

 _Oh lordy, here it comes,_ Mildred thinks, and hears the giant front door opening and closing. “Ask him if he remembers.”

Sarek and Gabriel walk into the living area. Lurlene crooks a finger at her and Mildred’s son. He comes over; she signals him to lean toward her. “Do you remember what you did about Ambrose Stewart’s dog when you were eight?”

This story is family fodder at any holiday or gathering. In the past Katrina Cornwell’s heard it a few times herself.

Lorca blinks. _I should have expected this kind of thing. Damn it. The Perseid meteor showers almost gave me away to Kat. Maybe it’s best I get my confession over with, but not right now._  “Hmm. I think the Klingons scrambled my memory when I was on their prison ship.”

But his face looks funny as he says it. Mildred can read that boy like a book. He is lying like a rug.

Lurlene cannot resist finishing the story. “Pardon me if this is a little crass, but this _is_ an eight-year-old child we’re talking about.” Mildred gives her arm a squeeze, but Lurlene pays no attention. “Gabriel walked around the perimeter of our property and ‘sprayed’ along it for about a week. His territorial  ‘markers’ kept that dog away forever! I kept wonderin’ why Gabriel didn’t use the bathroom much that week.”

Lorca grins, embarrassed, even though it wasn’t him.

Michael is holding Uriel, and Lurlene goes over to her to pick the baby up and begin dancing with him again. “Remember this, Gabriel? ‘We’re the perfect he and she … I’m crazy ‘bout my ba-by … and my baby’s crazy ‘bout me!’”

“YaaaaHH!” says Uri.

Mildred is watching. In the past, even after he was all grown up, Gabriel would take a turn with Lurlene as if on a dance floor, grinning away, and sing with her. But now he’s wearing a puzzled smile. “Sure,” he lies. “Cute song.”

Lurlene goes over to him with Uri. “You’re crazy ‘bout _this_ baby, aren’t you.” She’s saying it to Gabriel but cooing it at the baby (who, grinning toothlessly, coos back).

Gently, Lorca takes his son from Lurlene’s arms. “Yes,” he says, looking down into Uriel’s soft gray-green eyes, his anxiety beginning to ebb just from the touch of him. “I am.”

Sarek stays back, observing the exchanges between Lorca and his mothers silently. After a while, he slips off to his study, and after weighing it, makes a call.

.

.

The family is about to retire for the night when Lorca gets a call on his comm. He gives Michael a kiss on her cheek, nods at her, murmurs, “I’ll be in soon,” and responds to the call.

“It’s Cornwell.”

She sounds brisk, not angry.

“Yes, Admiral?”

“I’m here. On Vulcan. I’ve contacted Starfleet Headquarters. I need to meet with you.”

Lorca’s stomach tightens up and his breath comes short. He braces himself for the worst. “Where and when?”

“I just spoke with Sarek. I’ll meet you at the family compound as soon as I can get there in a flitter.”

“This place is huge. Have them drop you at the main gate, I’ll meet you there. I guess we can walk and talk.”

“That sounds fine,” Kat says.

“All right then. I’ll see you in a few.”

Gabriel sounds almost like his old self, and Katrina feels a pang. “Okay.”


	25. Revelations

 

She smells roses the moment she emerges from the flitter. “Are there flowers growing here?”

Gabriel’s eyebrows go up. “There’s a rose garden. Amanda—the ambassador’s wife—grows roses.”

“Well let’s walk that way then,” Cornwell says. She’s longing for a touch of Earth, and roses are some of her favorite things. Gabriel used to bring them to her sometimes. Right now she just wants their scent, because it’s beautiful and pleasurable.

 As they walk, low lights come on to guide their way, and go off behind them, so she can make out their colors: yellow, her favorite, pink, peach, red, blood red, white. Even lavender colored roses. She pauses to sniff occasionally, letting the tension build in Lorca. Because she can see it. Especially since she’s strategically positioned a certain envelope to show from the thigh pocket of her uniform.

They are on a large terrace now, which is planted at the perimeter with roses, and they can sit on benches. They could even watch the stars, if this were one of those times. But it’s not.

“First thing,” she says, and pulls out the letter he sent her. “Can you please elaborate?” And she shows him his handwritten words, and where she’s highlighted.

_I hope you can forgive me someday for what I did. I practiced heartless deception …There was another reason I may be able to tell you someday. _

“I …” He sighs deeply, looking down. Because what he did was shameful. Not necessarily in his world, where deception is common, but exploiting Kat’s trust in that way … “I don’t think it’s really something I can apologize for. That seems too feeble, to offer an apology. And that I almost killed you. I don’t think there’s anything I can do or say to make things right between us.”

“You tried to kill me! Then I spent _weeks_ on that Klingon ship, being _tortured_. You know what that’s like, don’t you? I don’t know how you let it roll off so easily, but you were only there a _short_ time.”

She glares at him outright. “So you better thank your resident geniuses Specialist Burnham and Lieutenant Stamets, for your remaining career in Starfleet. You may have saved tens of thousands—even millions—of lives.” It’s said grudgingly.

Surgically she wields her next words: “Still can’t completely make up for your Buran crew, but at least it’s a good thing you’ve done.”

He gazes at the ground, and when his voice comes out it’s rough. “I regret the Buran every day, Admiral.”

“I should think you would. Cold comfort for the crews’ families, though,” she says smartly. “Moving on. What is this … ‘reason you may be able to tell me some day’ …?”

He looks at her, his eyes haunted.

“And this? ‘I am, as you said, not the man I used to be. … a compromised man … I have done terrible things.’”

“I—”

She can see he is frightened. That he feels she’s circling in for the kill.

“‘I’m sorry I’m so different from _the Gabriel you used to know …_?” She shakes the paper at him. “Just what the hell does all this mean? And yes, I am willing to hear it, so I hope you’d ‘like to tell me’ now.”

Mouth thinning, he stands up with his back to her. He turns partway so she can see his face, but in profile. He clears his throat, and sighs. “I hardly know how to begin.”

“Try _talking.”_ She’s sitting, legs crossed at the knee, staring coldly at him. “I think you have a lot to tell me … Captain.”

He begins on Prior’s World. The transport beam, interrupted by an ion storm, and materializing on the USS—not the ISS—Buran. How he panicked. He knew he’d be recognized as Other. Not their Captain Lorca. He knew that because he saw people identical to his own crew, but in different uniforms. He knew that because he and the Emperor had found the deep secret of the USS Defiant, in “interphasic space”; they learned from her logs that she was a Federation ship … and what the Federation was. Some benevolent-seeming totalitarian interplanetary organization. Antithetical to the Terran Empire, which was quite forthright about what and who they are. Conquerors.

Kat all but sits open mouthed. This defies credulity. But she senses he is telling the truth. It’s in his body language, his furrowed brow, his gestures, speech patterns … his earnestness. Well, if this is true, it will be top secret. Starfleet couldn’t afford to accidentally open some rift to his … universe.

He turns to face Cornwell. “That’s what I thought about the Federation, anyway, until I actually came to work here.”

“The Buran,” she raps out.

“I couldn’t explain away my uniform, so I didn’t try. Just as I stepped down from the transporter, the ship went to Yellow alert; the Bridge reported Klingons, several ships. And the crew looked very … they were covering their terror, but I knew what this meant. Klingons were fierce warriors in the Terran Empire until we blew up their home world … killed most of them. The First Officer was at the conn, so I took a few minutes to change into a Starfleet uniform. I researched what Klingons were, in Federation space.

“Worse. They are _worse_.” He crosses his arms. “What I told you in the hearings was true. I wanted to spare the crew. I believed they were too … weak … to withstand Klingon torture.”

Cornwell opens her mouth, furious, but he continues, quickly:  “I know differently now. But I also know no Starfleet officer deserves to die in total humiliation, being dragged injured through the streets of that cursed planet Q’onoS, being pelted with offal, stomped on, dismembered … I got a news report, when I looked up the Klingons. And that’s what I saw. That’s what was reported… I didn’t want them to go through it.”

“ _You_ didn’t want them to find out who you were!” Kat spits out, anger in full force. “How _convenient_.”

“I decided to fight the ship to the best of her ability!” Lorca raises his voice, slamming a fist into an open palm. He knows he’s guilty of a lot. But what she’s accusing him of is crossing a very thin line. “ _You people_ weren’t prepared! You LET the Klingons in. _I_ kept the crew on task! And we defeated several ships, but more came along. That’s when I suspected it would be hopeless.” He shakes his head at the memory. “I told the crew they had made a valiant effort, and that the Klingons shouldn’t be able to steal our technology or materials. I thanked them, and I had the first officer initiate the self-destruct sequence, so they could die with dignity, and take as many Klingons with them as they could. And I made my way to an escape pod, because I knew that if I had to, I could withstand what the Klingons might dish out. I grew up in a very hard place, and can withstand torture and pain, and humiliation is foreign to me.

“But I was lucky. A Starfleet ship found me. And you know the rest.”

Cornwell stands in a flash, strides over in one long step and slaps his face with all her might.

He holds his hand to his face, checking to see if his jaw is intact. It’s already beginning to burn.

In one, long breath Katrina hisses out, “You _are_ lucky, because the crew of Discovery and their valiant efforts have saved _you_ a life sentence in prison, you _son of a bitch!”_

 If she wants to attract attention, she has enough rage in her to shout, but she keeps this between her and Lorca. She doesn’t know who might be listening and this … _everything_ about this … “Otherwhere” … is going to be top secret. She will make sure of that. It is the most dangerous threat to the Federation she can imagine.

They stand in darkness for a while. Cornwell takes a few steps away to try and calm herself. Her hands are trembling…the desire to scream and cry and rage at Gabriel overwhelming.

The silence between them is heavy. Her thoughts all over the place, Katrina feels like she’s drowning. It’s too much … too … disorienting. She needs to focus.

Priorities, she tells herself. Keep him talking. Get to the truth ….

When she turns back to him, it’s with forced calm. Her voice is tight. “I need to know: why were you so desperate to keep Discovery?”

“It was my only way home. And I needed her—”

“Who?”

“Michael Burnham.”

That stops her mid-rant. Katrina takes a shaky breath. “What does she have to do with it?” She’s not ready for this. But they’re going there. The place she knew they’d end up eventually. It’s the real truth. Time to tear off the bandage. Rip open the barely sealed wound on her heart. And when Gabriel Lorca begins speaking, it cuts her all over again.

“I loved Michael Burnham in my universe. But she was killed. When I found out that …” he swallows and Cornwell can see him composing himself. “When I found out she was here, that your universe had a Michael of its own, I felt like it was destiny. I wanted to win her over and find a way back to the Terran Empire, with Discovery. With her. She was meant to be a queen in my universe. I wanted to rule with her. By her side.”

Katrina sighs. “So what happened? Why didn’t you leave?”

“I didn’t have enough … mapping information, when the aliens took us. And during that time, when Michael and I felt we were alone together, we thought it might be for a lifetime. You’ve read the Record of the Board of Inquiry.  But a year … three months in, I didn’t want her to be alone if I were to die. It was the only thing I could give her. It felt … right.” He clears his throat. “I’d already gotten used to the Federation. Going back started to seem a little empty.

“The year with Michael changed everything. I fell in love with her. I’d never loved anyone the way I love her, I never even loved the other Michael this much … and Uriel … I think I may be a better person. … I can rationalize my past actions, but I really don’t deserve forgiveness, for the Buran, or for manipulating you. I’m not that person anymore.”

She doesn’t say anything to that. Kat looks off at the stars, over the L’langon Mountains, gathering her thoughts, which have grown nearly as wild as Lorca’s story. “As for the Buran, you carry that. It’s on you, Gabriel … whoever you are. And your deception of a woman who trusted you, because you look exactly like my—” She leans her head back, swallowing tears. “God help me, I can almost understand your reasoning about the Klingons and the Buran crew. I was lucky myself, to be rescued, to be out of that stinking hole of death.

“But Lorca—”

He turns to regard her, weariness—and fear—in his gaze.

“You can _never_ tell anyone about your origins. Do you understand me? Not Specialist Burnham. Not your parents. No one must ever know.” A pause then, as she realizes a terrible possibility. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? Burnham?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t tell her.”

Before either of them can speak again, the doors of the terrace open and Sarek emerges. It’s now dusk. The temperature has fallen sharply, and a light wind blows up flecks of sand. The sky is purplish-blue and the stars are out, shining above the thin atmosphere.

 “Captain. Admiral. The hour is getting late. I suggest you both come inside.”

They turn to him. Sarek meets both gazes, eyes level. He doesn’t remark on what he’s overheard. Yet he notices the admiral’s strained face. He sees the worry lines around Lorca’s eyes. Humans are quite easy to read. And his own suspicions are confirmed.

“I should be going,” Cornwell says, trying to diplomatically reject the offer.

“It is not safe to be in the desert at night alone,” Sarek tells her.

“I’ll call a flitter.”

“Not all flitters survive meeting a LeMatya. You do not know these dunes as we do. It would be best for you to stay. I _insist_.” His voice emanates authority. “I am your host. This is not a request. It is my responsibility to ensure your safety.” He looks at Lorca. “And Captain, your _wife_ and son are beginning to wonder where you are.”

With that, he turns and goes back inside leaving Cornwell and Lorca to look at each other.

“Your…wife?” She whispers.

“It’s…” he’s at a loss for words. Not wanting to hurt Katrina any more than he has already.

“I think we should do as the Ambassador says,” he says instead. “And I’m sure my mothers may be pleased to see you…assuming you and my counterpart were….”

She doesn’t speak to him. Just turns and heads toward the large, dark stone doors, where Sarek stands expectantly.

With a heavy sigh, Lorca follows her inside. He heads upstairs.

.

.

Michael is feeding Uriel from a bottle and looks up as he enters her chambers. It’s the best word he has to describe her room. The stone walls are draped with Vulcan tapestries that billow gently from the breeze that slips through the partly opened doors. Even upstairs in Sarek’s home there are balconies, and Michael’s room has one as well. Her bed is large—something likely custom made and the room is bathed in the glow of light—its source likely electrical but unseen.

She looks up as he enters and wearily begins removing his shoes and the rest of his uniform. Gabriel changes back into a long, lightweight man’s tunic, one gifted to him by Amanda. Michael hasn’t worn her Starfleet blues since they’ve been on the planet either. Here, they’re not officers, just a family, their primary concern their son.

 “You were with Admiral Cornwell a long time. Uri was starting to worry.”

There’s no insinuation in her voice, and she glances back down at the baby who is sucking contently, the contents of his bottle halfway gone. His eyes are on his mother, and she smiles softly at him. Gabriel watches, standing slightly apart from them, but feeling as if he is a world away.

 “Yes.”

 All he can say at the moment.

All he can see is his life before this Michael. And his life with this Michael. A contrast if ever there was. Losing Michael the first time was painful, but he survived. Losing this one would be … unfathomable.

Slowly he walks over to them and settles next to his wife, looking over her shoulder and down at his son Uriel’s wise eyes drift to him and stare, fixedly. Pointedly. Michael traces a small cheek, and Uriel reaches out his hand to Gabriel. He takes it and exhales deeply. Feeling grief and guilt and shame and…

_Daddy…_

He opens his eyes and looks down at Uriel, surprised. The baby just blinks calmly still sucking on his bottle.

“Did he just say something?”

“Hm?” Michael is looking down at Uriel as well, the smile still on her face finger now tracing the delicate eyebrows, the nose…Gabriel takes a closer look at her, and then at Uriel as well.

“Nevermind. I think I’m just …” _tired, exhausted, stressed, worried … afraid_.

Uriel squeezes his finger.

_Daddy sad._

Gabriel’s brow furrows a bit as he looks at his son. He bites his tongue, but is thinking, huh? And trying to figure out if his imagination is playing tricks on him.

But when Uriel blinks, long, dark lashes floating up in a single slow movement, and the voice inside his mind that’s not his speaks again, Gabriel puts it together quickly.

_Daddy don’t be sad. Mommy loves us._

His eyes go wide and Gabriel goes still.

Uriel? He’s thinking.

Another quiet blink. Confirmation. He hesitates. How… what? What?!

_Mommy loves you. Don’t be scared daddy._

 Don’t be scared. …

_I’m not scared …._

This time, Uriel frowns, and Michael, watching her baby’s face, and noting the change, does too. “What’s wrong, Uriel?”

His eyes flick from her, to Gabriel, and back to his mother.

Slowly, Michael turns to face Gabriel, and seeing the expression on his face, looks at him questioningly. She notes the very visible hand print on his cheek.  “Are you … all right?”

Gabriel snaps out of his confused, shocked stupor at the tenor of worry in Michael’s voice, and quickly tries to pass it off. But this time, Michael doesn’t allow it.

“You DO realize your son knows something is wrong, don’t you?”

“I—“ His operative word of the night, Gabriel thinks sorrowfully. He closes his mouth and eyes and after a moment to steel himself, decides, against Cornwell’s advice, to tell Michael as much of the truth as he can.

“Is it about us? What did she say? Is Uriel in trouble? Are we?” Michael asks.

“No. No. It’s not … that,” he tells her, shifting a bit on the bed so that he can face her. Those large, soft brown eyes stare at his face, searching. The soothing cocoon of warmth that was emanating from her moments before has shirked away, replaced by a palpable sense of dread.

“Uriel is fine. It’s got nothing to do with him,” Gabriel starts. “It’s … me.”

“That is the _worst_ line I have _ever_ heard,” Michael says, voice low, but a sharpness to it, and he realizes, once that’s out, how terrible it sounds. Her eyes narrow at him.

“Gabriel…” It’s a not-so-gentle warning.

He looks to Uriel who looks at him and just blinks. He’s quiet now, having finished the bottle, now next to Michael.

 She gets up and  they look at each other.

“ _What_ did Admiral Cornwell say?”

He shakes his head and sighs, resolute now. There’s no going back. If he wants this family, wants Michael and Uriel, he knows he’ll have to confess. With quiet, halting words, head bowed under the intense gaze of his wife, he lays himself bare to her. Telling her everything.

Only before this Michael, does Gabriel reveal his soul.

He tells her of the other place.

He tells her of the other Michael.

With ragged, gravelly breath, he speaks of The Buran.

He whispers the truth of what happened between him and Admiral Cornwell.

 “I know you hate me now,” Gabriel says studying the stone floor intently unable to look at Michael’s face for fear of the judgment he believes will be there. The Michael he used to know would be filled with contempt. Disgust. Hate.

When he feels her hand on his cheek, followed by the smaller one of his son he first looks to Uri, and then to Michael.

It’s not hate he sees.

“I never met Captain Lorca,” she tells him. “I only knew of him by reputation. But Phillipa…spoke highly of him,” she says, dark eyes searching his face.

Michael has listened to every single word, Uriel in her arms the entire time, holding on to her finger. She’s heard Gabriel confess, putting the pieces of their intertwining lives together. The “rescue” of her prison transport. An event she never believed was by serendipity and now confirmed.

And Admiral Cornwell. Something she had heard (even at night, people still roam Discovery’s passageways) through rumors, now confessed by the man himself. It is terrible, she knows, what he’s done. But he has also done far more. She weighs the worst of it with the best of it.

 The training of the crew. The sacrifices. The risks they’ve all taken. The gains they’ve all made to win or at least, bring to a bitter, hard draw, this long, torturous war.

Not even on Eden, bruised, and bloodied, has she ever seen her husband brought as low as he is now. The contrition is apparent. But he doesn’t have anything to fear. She fell in love with him on that planet of false paradise, but the bond they formed is real.

“I love you Gabriel,” she tells him. “Not because of who you were, but because of who you have become.”

He leans his forehead on hers. Between them, Uriel wiggles, and smiles a soft, toothless baby smile.

 “I love the both of you, too,” he says, folding his wife and son into his arms and holding them close.

Over there, in the other place, he had wealth. Power. He had women and he had dominion. But here, he has none of those things. Here, he has love. And it’s far, far better than anything he had before.

**.**

**.**

Cornwell is walking slowly into the low-lit living room, trying to sort her thoughts. It’s odd that Sarek didn’t have one of his drivers take her back to the Healing Center, but it’s okay. She wants a little dose of normal, and Lorca’s moms are … they had a mutual adoration. Kat loves them.

“Penny for your thoughts,” comes Mildred’s voice. Gabriel’s dark-haired mother is seated on a divan, Lurlene stretched out perpendicular to her, her red head in Mildred’s lap. Lurlene waves a hand. “Lurlene, drink some water,” urges her spouse. “You don’t want a hangover.”

“I didn’t drink that much,” Lurlene says.

“Mmmm, whenever you drag out that story, you’re usually feeling pret-ty high.”

Katrina smiles and ducks her head, goes over to Mildred and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

“Lights, seventy per cent,” Mildred commands. “Let me get a look at you, Kat. … Is Vulcan getting to you, too?”

“You could say that. Hi, Lurlene,” Kat bends over to kiss Lurlene.

“Oh, sweetie, you look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”

“For crissakes, Lurlene.”

Cornwell waves a hand. “It’s okay, she’s probably right. The dry air and the heat have sucked all the moisture out of my skin. I know I’m tired. I’ve had a hell of a day.”

“Oh—” Lurlene sits up. “Amanda gave me something for that. You know us redheads.” She goes and fetches a spray bottle, spritzing her face, and holds it out to Kat.

“Go ahead, spray me,” says Katrina.

Lurlene obliges. It feels heavenly.

“What did the lawn NOT say to Gabriel when he was eight years old,” Mildred says dryly.

Cornwell bursts out laughing. “Oh you didn’t tell that story on him did you?”

“Oh yes I did. Amanda laughed herself silly.” While Lurlene is up, she gets two glasses of water from the replicator. “Here you are, dear, drink up.” She sips and Katrina gulps, albeit as quietly as she can. Lurlene shares her glass with Mildred.

They sit together in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Cornwell asks how things are in New Orleans, and Lurlene tells her about the latest JazzFest and one of her former student’s performances there. “I am so proud of her!”

“I remember her, I think. She used to hang out at the house when I visited.”

Mildred grins. “She had a huge crush on you, Katrina. You never noticed?”

Kat shakes her head. She’s only ever had eyes for Gabriel. She has to swallow tears, and in spite of herself, she furrows her brows and turns away.

“Oh, it’s hard for you, innit,” Lurlene says sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Katrina stands up, stretching. “I hope we’ll get a chance to visit some more. I’ve missed seeing you over the last couple of years.”

“Well you know you’re welcome at our home any time at all, no matter what’s goin’ on with Gabriel,” Lurlene says. “We’ve missed you too. Meanwhile, we’ll see you in the morning. Mildred, I’m goin’ up to bed.” She pecks her spouse on the cheek and leaves the room. Mildred holds up a hand to keep Katrina from leaving.

Her steady gaze on Cornwell, the older woman says, “You notice anything … different about Gabriel?”

 _Advice to the liar: cut it as close to the truth as possible_ , Kat remembers, perching on the couch by Mildred. “Yeah. He’s changed since the Buran incident. Starfleet found him fit to command another ship, but I’ve had my doubts. He was abducted by the Klingons a while back, too. That adds up to a lot of acute stress or post-traumatic stress. I’ve advised counseling, one day maybe he’ll actually do it. I’m not really in a position to order him. And Klingon torture … I’ve been through it myself. They have a lot of ways of messing with the human mind.”

“But you seem the same as ever. Stressed, yeah, but you remembered Lurlene’s student Liz Danes right off.”

Katrina musters a shrug. “It affects people in different ways, and they use different techniques on different people. Gabriel being a starship commander, well … names and people and common memories are very important, so they probably messed those up to screw with his mind.”

“Mmm-hmm,” says Mildred. In her _I’m not convinced_ noise.

Cornwell slaps her hands on her thighs, standing up again. “I need to find the guest room.”

“I’ll take you to it.” Amanda has appeared in the doorway. “Is there anything I can get for either of you before you retire?”

 _Hmm,_ Kat thinks to herself, bitterly. _Perhaps a whole new life?_ But aloud she says, “I’ll be delighted just to sleep, Ma’am.”

“Oh, please, call me Amanda. Everyone does.”

Mildred raises an eyebrow, just as Gabriel does, and there’s a pang in Katrina’s heart.

.

.

“Well, it’s going far better than I thought it would,” Amanda says as they prepare for bed. She’s presently seated at a vanity, loosening her braids. Sarek comes to stand behind her, watching their reflections in the mirror. His long fingers cover hers, taking over the work. Amanda leans into the touch, lowering her hands. This is something he only does when his thoughts are unsettled.

“That was an interesting turn of events,” she remarks, watching his face in the mirror. “… the Admiral’s arrival. I assume she and Captain Lorca had an … intimate relationship at one time.”

It’s a simple statement. Sarek’s hands continue working her hair, unbraiding the silky tendrils, feeling them slide between his fingers.

“Indeed.”

“Sarek, what is Gabriel hiding?”

The fingers stop moving. Sarek blinks and looks down at the top of Amanda’s head.

“I do not know,” he tells her. “However, it is a matter that needs to be addressed between him, Admiral Cornwell, and Michael. For Uriel’s sake.”

At that, she smiles, and brings his hands down to her shoulders, covering them with her own.

“Why, husband. Are you becoming … sentimental?”

“Michael is our daughter. Uriel is her son. They are family. It is only … logical,” he says, looking straight ahead into the mirror.

Amanda smiles. “I love how you use logic to justify any and everything. Surak would be proud.”

He gives her shoulders a light squeeze. Eventually, they drift off to bed.

 


	26. A Peaceful Resolution

 

Cornwell cannot sleep. She was emotionally exhausted earlier and did doze when she got to bed, but woke up, and every time she’s started drifting off she wakes up again. Annoyed, she rises at 0400 and asks the computer what clothing is recommended for Vulcan’s desert nights, and orders clothes and desert boots from the replicator, adding a hooded cloak. Once dressed, she heads downstairs trying to be as quiet as possible to not wake the others.

However, she’s surprised to see Sarek standing at the foot of the banister, beside him, the family’s  sehlat.  Katrina stops when he greets her, his blue gaze stern.  “As I pointed out earlier, the desert is very dangerous at night. You must take I’Chaya with you, and stay within the perimeters of the family property. They are marked electronically and by ancient stone. I cannot permit you to go otherwise.”

Katrina bows her head to Sarek, then bends slightly to I’Chaya sa-fu. The sehlat’s great head comes up to meet her gaze, and there seems to be wisdom in the creature’s dark eyes, and a spirit of great bravery. Then the sehlat licks her face, one long, velvety swoop of the tongue. “Thank you, Ambassador. Looks like I’Chaya and I will get along fine, won’t we.” The sehlat puts his head against her side briefly and they walk outdoors.

It’s the dark hours before dawn. Vulcan has no moon, but her “twin” planet, T’Khut, reflects brightly over the harsh landscape. Cornwell walks slowly. Sarek’s family compound extends for miles. She can’t go far, yet, but she wants to be far enough out to lie back and look at the many stars. Vulcan’s thin atmosphere will reveal many more than she can see on Earth. It’s bittersweet—she and Gabe liked to stargaze together—but it was something she loved to do before she ever met him. But now she lies back by herself, the sehlat by her head keeping watch for any predators, and his soft, regular chuffs of breath soothe Katrina into a light doze after she’s drunk her fill of clear, beautiful stars.

When she wakes she feels renewed, though she’s only napped. That, and her meditation with Tarikim earlier, plus the conversation with Sarek have granted her a serenity she has not experienced since before the start of the war. Her mind is sharper than it’s been in some time, her thoughts quicker, not wading slowly through pain. And she’s clearer about some things now.

She owes Burnham her life. Burnham – a new mother – risked everything to set the sensor devices that allowed Discovery to unlock the code of Klingon cloaking technology. She volunteered to do this at great risk to herself—and her child’s future—to save thousands, possibly millions, of lives. And she took a further risk, rescuing Cornwell and Tyler from the Klingon Sarcophagus ship.

Cornwell has been toying with this decision, but now she is sure it is the right one. She is going to recommend Burnham’s reinstatement to Starfleet. She’s reviewed the log buoy of Shenzhou’s bridge from the day of Burnham’s mutiny, and what led up to Burnham’s decision. She feels Burnham may have been justified in her supposition that the Klingons would respect Starfleet’s firepower. Certainly the “Vulcan Hello” had worked for the Vulcans in the past, so her argument was … logical. She was clearly trying to prevent a war. Her execution was clumsy.

There was no way Burnham could have convinced Georgiou. Philippa was a negotiator _par excellence_ and would have pursued that course no matter what. Georgiou did not have the warrior spirit that Lorca has, that Katrina has developed. But Philippa was an excellent captain, and an Academy classmate; Cornwell misses her.

The senior admirals who tried Burnham for mutiny had not listened to Cornwell. She argued for more leniency, perhaps busting Burnham down to Specialist, but they were moving to prevent any future such incidents, so took a hard line.

Back to awards. Discovery’s crew is deserving of commendations for bravery but her captain…

Katrina sighs, long and heavy, feeling the heat and sting behind her eyes. She shakes her head furiously and refocuses, forcing herself to look at the situation analytically, not emotionally.

was the one to figure out that a pattern of spore jumps around the Klingon Ship of the Dead (of whom she was nearly one) could get them the frequencies of their cloak, so Lorca deserves credit for that. Tyler, for strategy getting aboard and placing devices in the Klingon ship.

There is also the bravery of Lieutenant Stamets, Mycologist/Engineer, who nearly died in that evolution, doing 133 spore jumps.

And Burnham, for saving Katrina’s life at risk of her own.

She accepts the fact the recent Board of Inquiry voted to allow Burnham and Lorca custody of their son for six months. As a woman it pains her to think of separating mother and child. And if Lorca is still anything like the man she used to know, he must be deeply unhappy with the decision.

Once again she pauses when she thinks of him.

It is with more wistfulness than anger, that she delicately approaches the thought of Gabriel. 

No matter how she feels about him – feelings that are still shaky at best – she cannot bear to remove either parent from their child.

A child.

That was a dream for her and Gabriel once. Her bitterness is because he made it a reality with a woman that isn’t her, whether by alien means or all-too-human means. But a child needs its parents. The baby did nothing wrong. He’s an innocent. It’s what she tells herself. Repeats in whispered words in order to force herself to do the right thing, not the emotional one.

Time’s a-wasting, though.

When she finishes her desert walk and has petted I’Chaya sa-fu goodnight, Katrina sits at her desk in her quarters and begins composing a letter. Perhaps she should say it aloud in a visual comm. Looking as weary as she still does, it might have more impact.

She dons her Service Dress uniform and composes herself, ready to speak her recommendations. Then she comms Starfleet Headquarters.

The wound he left feels now more like an ache, not an acute pain. And perhaps, with more time, it will heal completely.

.

.

Lorca’s standing by the wall at the edge of the terrace. It’s a low wall, and he imagines Michael sitting on it, wrapping her arms around him, her head on his chest. He feels a sharp tug in his heart. This may be the last time they can be together. Last night they slept in a room comparable to the Emperor’s best, and now, even here, he is about to lose Michael again, a kinder, better Michael. Maybe they’ll get conjugal visits. He swallows hard. She’s been his rock, the person who inspired him to be a good man, a parent, side by side with her. The woman he owes his new life to, in more ways than one. Now, he may be a single parent, with times he can spend here, or on Earth, but nothing like the time he’s had with Uriel up until—

“Good mornin’,” he hears Mildred Lorca say. In many ways she is like the Mildred of his universe, dry, and funny, and acute. His mother there had been married to a feckless man who was killed, and she had then met Lurlene, who – over there – is nothing like Lurlene here. He never liked her, whereas this Lurlene is everything you could not be in his birthplace. Sweet, soft, a little … kooky? Is that the word?

The other Mildred, well, she wasn’t much for filial affection. Warm handshakes, pats on the shoulder. And terrible scoldings, but she was simply preparing him for the high standards of military service, which he started at twelve. It made him into a formidable soldier though. He was the kind of leader who took an interest in his people in a general way, so they, too, would live up to high standards. His.

“…I’m onto you,” Mildred is saying.

He tries to “rewind” to what she was saying while he was lost in thought. But he can’t. It’s too early, he’s not fully awake. He hasn’t been for his morning run, there’s not enough oxygen … “I’m sorry?” he says.

“I said, Gabriel, I’m onto you. You’ve changed. You don’t even seem like my son anymore.”

He frowns and looks over at her. “Well, you know about—”

Mildred raises one hand and ticks off fingers with the other. “You blew up the Buran, you had PTSD we can suppose, and you went through terrible stuff with the Klingons on that prison ship. Right?”

“Yeesss,” he says slowly, studying her expression. It’s frank, and a little skeptical.

“But there’s something missing, sweetheart. I can’t tell you what it is, but there’s a sweetness that comes out in Gabriel when he’s with us. And I know him as well as a mother can know her child.  He’s flesh of my flesh, and you’re … not … him.” Her eyes are blue, just like his, and her expression is just like his when he smells bullshit: eyes steely, chin out a little, and a tiny “prove yourself” turn at the corner of her mouth.

 _I’m not …_ He takes a quick look around for Cornwell. “It’s classified,” he says, defaulting to military jargon because the truth, he thinks, is too much for her to bear.

Mildred is waiting, her arms crossed at her waist, all but tapping her foot. “Mmm-hmm.”

“It’s a military secret, Mildred. I really can’t tell you.”

“Out with it,” she says. “I’m silent as the grave and I’m not tellin’ Lurlene, bless her heart. I love her with all that I am, but she can’t keep a secret for anything. But it’s Lorca business, and as the head of the Lorca family, I’m telling you, you’re gonna tell me, or I’m going to raise my suspicions at breakfast, in front of _everybody_.”

“I look exactly like him—”

“No. No, you don’t. _He_ gave up trying to lie to me when he was about fifteen years old. I can read him like a blueprint. _He_ doesn’t have a worn-in look of suspicion, or … craftiness, either. At least he didn’t ….” Mildred pauses mid-thought and looks deeply emotional for the first time since Gabriel has met her. She tilts her head back, probably swallowing tears, and when she looks at him again her face is composed but her eyes are gleaming.

He relents, eyes darting around again before speaking. “There was a transporter accident. Incident. I was transporting during an ion storm, and those screw with—”

“I get that, I’ve heard of them and read about them. Move along.”

“When I materialized, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I was on a ship that looked like mine, but wasn’t. I had the same crew, but some of them were in different jobs. You’ve heard of the many Universes Theory—”

“Yes, yes,” she brushes it aside with a wave of her hand, her voice growing hard. Urgent. “Where is my _son_? Do you know if he’s still …?”

“Presumably, he’s where I’m supposed to be.” He shrugs. “I’m sorry. I don’t really know.”

Mildred gasps and covers her mouth with the back of a hand, and he realizes it’s a sob, quickly suppressed. She brushes at her eyes and levels a stare at him. “Well you listen to me, Gabriel Lorca, wherever the hell you’re from. You find him. He’s a good man.”

“If he’s anything like me he’s stubborn, hard to kill, and even harder to break. He’s a survivor.”

She nods, turns and starts walking away, taking a moment to gather herself. Gabriel watches Mildred’s shoulders rise and fall quickly, then after a moment, she stills and comes back so she can continue in the same quiet tone of their whole conversation. But her eyes are slightly red now. And her lips are pressed in a tight line.  “Lurlene and I love that baby, and we have fallen for Michael, and …” Her look changes to one of friendliness mixed with heartbreak. “And I like you, you’re a good father. I see flashes of him when you look at Michael or hold your son. And you’re making them both happy, I can tell. And Lurlene seems to think you are … our son. So I invite you to come to our home, and visit with us. All right?” Reaching out, she squeezes his upper arm, and leaves her hand there for a moment. He covers it with his own, briefly, and nods.

“Thank you. I think … I think we’d like that. It may be just me and Uriel, though. Michael—” and his voice cracks on that name; now he’s the one looking emotional. “Michael’s time with us is over. She’s going back to Starfleet prison for the mutiny.”

“What the—”

“We may have visitation, I don’t know.”

Mildred’s face changes, and she opens her arms to him. “Oh, honey,” she says softly, and he is embraced by Mildred Lorca for the first time in either universe.

.

.

Michael’s looking out over the terrace, the morning sun making the horizon shimmer. The air is warm and dry, kissing her skin. It’s been a long time since she’s seen and felt a Vulcan sunrise, and it is welcome.

“Look Uriel,” she whispers to her baby, nestled in her arms. They’re seated on a chaise lounge on the downstairs balcony.

It’s wistful. They’ve been here just a day, but already so much has happened. Time feels as if it’s going by too quickly—her baby, quickly becoming not a baby. With a pang Michael realizes he certainly won’t be this little the next time she sees him; that this will likely be the last time she will hold her son in her arms this way.

  _Kaiidth._

Still, it is a difficult thing to accept. That is the worst part of it all. Before, when it was just herself, she had decided to accept her punishment—believed it was deserved, earned even. Yet that feels as if it were another lifetime. She no longer recognizes the woman she was. So much has changed.

Uriel begins to wriggle a bit in her arms and she shifts a bit, reaching down for the bottle beside her and bringing the nipple to his lips. Hungrily, he begins to suckle, big eyes on hers the entire while. Michael smiles.

“You are precious to me,” she tells him quietly.

Katrina watches the two from the doorway, debating whether to approach.

 She doesn’t want to interrupt Michael—has no idea what she would even say. There are a million words in her heart and mind, but none seem fitting.

Still, it is the first time she’s been able to get the specialist alone, and a part of her, the part that still loves Gabriel Lorca, is curious to see what—if things were different—could have been.

In his mother’s arms, Uriel breaks eye contact, and turns his head in the direction of the door.

Michael follows his gaze, turning her body to see—

“Admiral.” She moves to stand, but Katrina holds up a hand, moving toward her.

“No need for formality, Specialist,” she says. “None of us are in uniform right now.”

Michael sits back as Uriel tugs on her finger for more milk. She raises the bottle to his lips again and he begins sucking contentedly. With her chin she beckons Cornwell to the empty chair beside her.

“Please Admiral, come sit with us.”

There’s no hostility in it; Katrina knows immediately that the time has come for them to talk. So, pushing aside her own fears and insecurities, she takes the seat next to Michael. When she looks down at the small child in the specialist’s arms she gasps; despite all her resolve, the sight of the little boy makes her tear up—a visual so powerful all Katrina can do is try, and fail, to suppress the rise of emotion that swells inside her.

“He looks—” Her voice breaks as she takes in the baby. “He looks like Gabriel.”

Hazel eyes, a grayish-green, greet hers and she thinks, as Uriel blinks slowly up at her, that those eyes could easily have been those of the child she would have had with Gabriel.

 Michael looks down at Uriel quietly, to give Admiral Cornwell a moment. She can only imagine how the other woman must feel right now. And, looking into herself, she does not know whether she could maintain the same kind of decency.

Even now, thoughts of separation from Gabriel and Uriel make her nearly buckle, and it is only due to decades of Vulcan training that Michael able to maintain the external façade. She has only broken once, back onboard Discovery, and when she did, Gabriel was there to catch her.

“I’m…”

‘Sorry’ feels trite. Disingenuous. It’s not enough. It doesn’t truly convey her sentiment.

‘Condolences’ feel as if she’s dissembling—dancing around the truth, keeping it at a distance, afraid of confrontation.

“I love him.”

The truth is no less painful, but it does not burn as badly as a lie would have.

Katrina looks at Michael, looking at her. “I love him too.”

They’re not talking about the same person. They study one another carefully, and Michael becomes aware of that when Uriel gently touches her wrist.

She wonders if the admiral knows. Doesn’t want to say anything if she doesn’t. Doesn’t want to be the one to tell her otherwise but it feels if she remains silent, she might only add to the grief Admiral Cornwell must feel.

This woman, likely spurned, will determine the future of Michael’s family. Cornwell has the power to decide whether Michael will even have a future to speak of.

And so, with humility, she can only ask. “Please,” Michael whispers, her voice low. “Please don’t take him away.”

Cornwell doesn’t know whether Michael is speaking of Uriel. Or Gabriel, or both. She moves to say something but the feel of a tiny hand on her skin stop her, and she looks down again in surprise. Uriel is staring up at her, an arm extended, fingers against her cheek.

 “May I hold him?” she asks.

Michael folds him into her arms, and Katrina cradles Uriel gently, supporting his head.

Instantly, at the feel of his soft body, his slight weight, and warmth, she closes her eyes, and becomes immediately immersed in an intense sensation of a love so strong it fills her, lifts her spirit. She can sense the wounds across her heart beginning to mend.

_Release …_

She hears the voice, can’t place it. It’s not hers, not Michael’s, foreign … and for a split second, she panics.

_Peace …_

A familiar phrase, she knows she’s heard this before …

_Peace …_

So many, many regrets. Opportunities lost.

Love gone.

Heartache.

Pain.

_Breathe, Katrina …_

She does. Deeply. Evenly.

In. Out. In. Out …

 _Peace,_ says the voice, smaller now. As if a child…

Her eyes open. Look down into big ones, framed in a small, delicate face, looking up at her.

 _Peace,_ Uriel says, his voice in her mind, his eyes blinking slowly.

_Be still._

For the first time since that horrible, fateful night on Discovery, when a man not her Gabriel lied to her, deceived her, and cast her into hell, does Katrina Cornwell finally find some sense of stability.

She feels the calm. Feels a weight slip from her shoulders. She would not care to try and explain this. Cannot justify it. Has no evidence whether it’s even true. But in the moment with this child, she senses her Gabriel is out there. Somewhere.

And she means to find him.

 “Admiral? Are you … well?”

“Yes,” Cornwell says quickly, coming back to herself and looking down at the baby. “Yes. I am … very well.” It is not a lie. She hands Uriel back to his mother, and smiles at Michael Burnham. “You don’t have to worry,” Katrina tells Michael. “It’s already done.”

**.**

For the moment, he’s alone, deep in thought as he gazes across the desert landscape. It’s getting hotter. The early morning chill is nearly gone, the sun is beginning to beam and the sand is starting its shimmer.  Gabriel is on his second cup of coffee, mulling his conversation with Mildred. It’s been nearly a year since he came to this universe and in that time he’s fought a war, married a woman, had a child, and saved a federation—all through lies and deception—never once really stopping to consider the man he switched places with.

Now, however, he does. Gabriel told Mildred and Katrina that if he and his other self were anything alike, he would survive. But are they? This Michael Burnham is nothing like the one he used to know. No … not true. Both Michaels are stubborn, especially when they believe they are correct. Both Michaels are strong in will and in body.

So maybe … maybe he and his counterpart are more alike than they are different.

He needs to find that man.

He needs to show the Admiral he’s not the person he was. That he can be something better. He owes it to Katrina. And Mildred. And Lurlene. But he also owes it to Gabriel Lorca.

 “About your … wife?” Cornwell says slowly, repeating the words spoken the night before while looking at Gabriel’s back.

She’s been standing behind him the past few minutes, her eyes taking in the build of his shoulders; she can see the tension there. He’s like her Gabriel used to be when he was brooding over something. Still, she can’t deny that a Gabriel Lorca, even one not hers, is still a beautiful sight. He really is a lovely man.

Just not hers. She reminds herself about why she’s here right now.

“Yes.” He’s done lying. Katrina deserves no less than his honestly. He turns around to face her.

“How? Where? You can’t marry a prisoner,” she tells him.  

“I made a promise to Michael,” Gabriel says, “when we were on that planet. I know you don’t like me very much, probably don’t believe me, but I love her with everything I am just as…,” he hedges his next few words, “just as I know you loved him. And just as he loved you.”

Him. He’s speaking of her Gabriel.

“How do you know?” she asks, suspiciously. The relationship between Katrina and Gabriel was known only to a few. They were private people. Their closest friends, now mostly dead, and Gabriel’s mothers.

“It was in his logs,” Gabriel says. “He spoke of you often. I know you two had…plans. I ruined that for you. There’s nothing I can do to set it right and as I said, I’m sorry as hell. But I love Michael as much as Gabriel loved you. I just …” He’s fishing now, hoping that he’s not exhausted Katrina’s capacity for empathy.

“I don’t want my son to grow up without a father. I am willing to, though, if it comes to that. But I refuse to allow him to grow up without a mother.”

 On this, he’s firm, pleading. He will do anything. ANYTHING for his family.

Katrina contemplates this Gabriel remembering the touch of Uri, a beautiful baby if there ever was one. Gabriel is correct. She’d never want that child to be without a parent. Let alone both.

“You need to marry Michael,” she tells him, becoming more resolute as she speaks. “You need to marry her, legally, if you’re serious about protecting her, and protecting Uriel. Starfleet would never take both of you away from him. They would be forced to compromise. And technically….” This part is far more difficult for her to say, “technically, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Because Starfleet would never try a man twice. And the matter of the Buran has been settled according to proper Fleet procedure. She is the only one who knows the truth. And she also knows that reopening that incident would lead to consequences far more dangerous than the majority of her counterparts are willing or able to deal with.

“Marry her Gabriel. I can do it.”

.

.

The ceremony is small. It is only Gabriel, Michael and Uriel, Mildred and Lurlene, Sarek and Amanda.

Katrina officiates. Gabriel talked with Michael shortly after his conversation with Cornwell, and Michael agreed. It was in the best interest of their son.

“But I want it to be in your best interest too,” he told her.

“Gabriel,” Michael said, “we’re already married. This is just a mere formality.”

But it means the world to him.

Now, here they stand.

Uriel is in his arms.

Katrina looks down at the baby. She cannot help herself. When he reaches out a hand to hers, she takes it.

“Captain Gabriel Lorca, Commander Michael Burnham, by the powers vested in me by Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

A smile breaks out over Michael’s face, as Gabriel grins down at her. Between them, in his arms, Uriel lets out an excited squeal and beams at them.

 Katrina brings out two certificates: A Certificate of Marriage, and a reinstatement of Michael Burnham to the rank of Commander.

Amanda and Sarek touch fingers gently, looking on. Lurlene rests her head on Mildred’s shoulder.

“One day,” she says, “that will be Gabriel and Katrina standing there, too. And we’ll have two sons to love.”

Mildred looks at her surprised. “You know?”

Lurlene nods quietly. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on him. And I also know that wherever our Gabriel is, he’s giving them hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We are considering a third installment, but are wondering if this particular series has run its course. If you liked it, and want more, let us know.
> 
> And if you hated it, let us know. After all, reviews are the only way fanfic writers get paid.


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